All Things Change But Truth
by The Gull's-Way Collective
Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same.
1. Chapter 1

_**All Things Change But Truth**- The Gull's-Way Collective _

_Rating: PG 13_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, for entertainment purposes only. These are not our characters, and we make no profit from them.

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**Authors' Notes:**

All I can say is, "Wow, what a ride!" This journey started many months ago, and an incredible journey it has been. We've been down a lot of roads, and taken a few corners more quickly than we probably should have, but, heck, we got where we were going. And, I'm giving a big tip of my hat to the Borg-kid in the back seat. Who would've ever known that a few crayons and a scribble sheet could create such a map? Seriously, though, working with LML and Judy has been tons of fun, and I'm eternally grateful to be part of this group.—Cheri

Can three people co-author a novel? Sure they can, as long as two of them are patient, kind, understanding souls who are willing to put up with someone as annoying as me. Cheri and Judy, it's been a blast (and thank you for not pulling over and whacking me when I got too out of control). Over three hundred pages and no one ever sent an e-mail typed all in caps. It's amazing.

Another quick acknowledgement to Fran Striker, the author of The Lone Ranger Creed as well as the man responsible for authoring the Lone Ranger radio scripts (156 of them a year) and novels, and many Green Hornet scripts. He pounded out 60,000 words a week in the Age of the Manual Typewriter. And a tip of the hat to Lynn, who put us onto the Creed way back in May, also to Susan, who faithfully read the chapters and made many suggestions.—L.M. Lewis

Being the least productive of this trio, "Kudos" to my comrades for a job well done! Cheri and LML should get most of the credit and they definitely deserve it, editing and double-checking everything! (Not to mention all those brainstorming sessions-you guys were amazing to try and keep up with!) After the first 150 pages, emails were fun as we all had to make sure we were on the same page LOL! I can't imagine what will happen if we give the kid finger paint instead of crayons during the next ride! If I ever win the lottery, I SWEAR I will rent Gulls Way for a weekend for one heck of a party (that way we can also clear up-ahem-a few misconceptions)!—Judy

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**Chapter 1**

The phone rings and everything changes.

3:45 a.m. McCormick hit the alarm clock, and almost knocked the lamp off the nightstand before his foggy brain connected the sound with the telephone and he scrabbled for the receiver.

"Who's it?" he muttered sleepily.

"Hello? Mark?" It was Frank's voice and Frank did not call at this hour for anything less than a serious emergency. McCormick felt for the switch on the lamp and was sitting up before he even heard the next words. "There's been an accident."

He instinctively glanced out the window in the direction of the main house, though he knew it wasn't the judge; he was home safe. _Oh, God, no, not Claudia_. "Not—"

"Milt. They say he ran a red light over on Glendale Avenue, hit a truck."

"But, he's—"

"At St. Mary's. He's gonna be okay, Mark. They said he's awake; he's talking."

"What the hell was he doing on Glendale? I left him in the den." McCormick was still two facts back, and trying hard to process _that_ while he reached for the pants and shirt he'd dropped alongside the bed not that many hours earlier that night. "What did he say? Did you talk to him?"

"Not yet, I just got here myself. The guy doing the accident report recognized him and called me. He hadn't woken up yet and they didn't have any ID. Now they've just moved him up to a room. They say I'll be able to see him pretty soon."

"Okay, I'll be there in a bit. Jeez, what the hell was he _doing_?" McCormick juggled the phone from hand to hand as he pulled on the shirt. "It's a case. You know that Frank; he's gone and started something and he didn't _tell_ me."

"Now, Mark—"

"Well what the hell else could it be with him out driving around in the middle of the night?"

There was an audible sigh from Harper's end of the line as no other likely suggestions were forthcoming. Finally Frank said, "Don't rush. We don't need another accident. Take your time. I'll wait for you in the ER lobby."

00000

For Mark, St. Mary's held nothing but bad associations, though he was eternally grateful that they had saved Hardcastle's life when he'd been shot in the chest a year and a half ago. Now he stood by the steps of the ER entrance and took a few deep breaths of the cool December air.

_It can't be as bad as last time. He's awake. He's talking._ Mark was already talking himself through the whole thing. _Do not get angry with him. That can wait until tomorrow._

But angry he was, for the judge to be out in the middle of the night, riding solo on God knows what, not quite a month after they'd had The Talk, and he'd_ promised_, more or less, not to do this very thing. And angry with himself, too, for not paying more attention to the signs: the file on the patio table that he'd chosen to ignore the other morning, the slightly distracted air about the man the last couple of days. Something must've come up, something that couldn't wait until his exams were over in a couple of days.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took the steps two at a time. _So, he didn't want to distract you . . . and now this_. But if he was okay, if he was awake, and talking, then McCormick swore to himself he wouldn't even say 'I told you so.'

He saw Frank leaning against the wall, over by the elevators at the other side of the lobby. The room was as empty as it ever got, with only a handful of people who were either sick or had nowhere else to be. Frank gave him a small wave and slouched over to the elevator buttons.

"Sixth floor," he said, as Mark joined him. "Not SICU this time."

Mark stepped onto the elevator behind him and turned to hit the button. "You been up there yet?"

Frank shook his head.

"But he's okay?"

Frank nodded, but there was something a little _hedgy_ about it, and Mark raised an eyebrow worriedly. "The thing is, the doc in the ER was saying he was out for quite a while, and the officer who did the report, well . . ."

"Well, what?" Mark asked impatiently.

"There weren't any skid marks, none. And the guy in the truck said he came right at him; didn't try to stop."

McCormick frowned. The elevator doors dinged, and opened onto the dimly-lit sixth floor. They both stepped off.

Frank stood there, shoulders a little hunched, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "And the x-ray—the CAT scan—was negative."

"That's good; isn't it?" Mark said questioningly.

Frank looked doubtful. "The doc was saying it might have been a stroke; that it might not be the kind that shows up on a scan. And _that's_ what caused the accident, and why he was out for so long, not from hitting his head.

"But he's awake now?" McCormick asked quietly. "He's moving everything?"

Frank nodded again. "That's what they said."

"Then he's okay," Mark said decisively. "He's all right."

Frank flashed his badge at the nurse behind the desk. "Hardcastle, 612-A?" She pointed them down the hall. McCormick fell in behind the other man, grateful for once not to have to explain himself. 612 was halfway down on the right. There was a little light coming from the doorway. Mark held back, took a breath again, and let Frank go first.

The man on the bed looked almost as pale as the bandage on his forehead and his eyes were closed. The nurse standing near the head of the bed, adjusting his IV, turned at their entrance and looked sternly at them. "Visiting hours are—"

"Police," Frank smiled. Mark thought he must not be fond of having to explain himself, either.

The nurse's eyebrows went up. "Well, you can't expect to question him _now_."

But then her patient opened his eyes, blinked a couple times and said, "Frank?" with a look of mild confusion on his face. "What the hell happened?"

"Accident. You hit a truck." Frank kept it simple. "You're in St. Mary's."

Hardcastle's gaze drifted around the room, taking in his surroundings, passing over McCormick without comment. "A truck, huh?" he looked like he was on the verge of falling back asleep. "Must've been a big one."

Mark had stepped a little further into the room, relief written on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, when the judge's eyes flickered open again, looking briefly at him, and then back at Frank again.

And then he asked, "Where's Nancy?"

00000

The judge hadn't stayed awake long enough for an answer, not even long enough to catch the looks of dismay that his two visitors had exchanged. The nurse noticed, though, and asked quietly, "His wife?"

Frank nodded, and then after a moment's pause, "She's deceased. Thirteen years now."

"Don't worry," the nurse finished smoothing out the sheet. "It's like that sometimes, especially late at night. They seem lucid, but they're really a bit confused."

"Not _him_," McCormick protested.

"Well, you should let him get a little sleep," she checked the IV against her watch one last time. "He'll probably be all right in the morning."

"Frank, he's _not_ all right," McCormick's voice had risen just slightly in register and volume; the nurse pursed her lips.

"I think we need to step outside for a minute, Mark," Harper had him by the elbow and was steering him toward the door, while the younger man was still looking over his shoulder at the patient. "Now," he added a little more forcefully. McCormick finally gave way, and let himself be pushed out into the hallway. Once there, though, he turned on Frank.

"He's confused. Something's wrong."

"Yes, he has a head injury and, God forbid, maybe even a little stroke. I dunno." Frank kept one hand firmly on McCormick's arm. "But there's not a damn thing you can do about it right now except get yourself thrown out of this hospital. So settle down."

"But—"

"_No_. She's right about one thing. Nobody is at their best at four-thirty in the morning when they haven't gotten much rest. Now we're both going to go home, and let the nice nurse take care of him for a while. Then we'll come back in a few hours, see how he's doing, and talk to his doctor."

Mark stood there, no longer needing to be physically retrained, but still looking entirely unhappy, staring back at the doorway of room 612. "Okay," he finally said, resignedly, "but Frank . . . what are you going to do the next time he asks for Nancy?"

00000

He'd driven home in the early morning darkness; it wouldn't be dawn yet for another two hours. The estate was dark as well, without even the porch light left on. He fished out the key to the front door and fiddled it into the lock, entirely by feel and memory. _Three years, maybe a thousand times_. He stepped into the familiar hallway and flicked on the light.

Then the light in the den. He stood at the top of the two steps leading down into that room. Everything looked _normal_, exactly as it had eight hours earlier, when he'd said goodnight to the judge and headed over to the gatehouse. Hardcastle had been sitting at his desk, going through some papers. _What papers?_ Such an ordinary thing. He hadn't even bothered to look. The desk was bare now.

Now he stepped down into the room and, without any self-consciousness, slid into the chair behind it. He began to go through the middle left-hand side drawer, a slow, methodical search that revealed nothing but recent bills and papers. _It might have been any of these._ But if it had been, it wasn't what he was looking for. He closed the drawer and sat back. _This is nonsense. You'll show up there this morning; he'll be grousing about the food and saying he wants to check out. He was half-asleep._

_Something is wrong._

He took two paperclips from the top left hand drawer and gently probed the lock on the bottom right. It was less than a minute before he heard the snick and it released. There were a dozen files in there. He ignored the one with his name on it. The others he examined briefly. None appeared to be very active. Then he found one thin manila folder, not alphabetically filed since it had no heading. It contained two sheets of paper from a legal pad, some quickly jotted notations, and a map of Greater LA, nothing else.

He took a closer look at the other sheet: some numbers, hastily scribbled, with no particular apparent meaning, the name 'Henry', just that, no last name. Down near the bottom was Glendale, and then 'S 1712'. It was all written in Hardcastle's none-too-legible scrawl, with the look of notes jotted down quickly while on the phone.

Glendale. A meeting no doubt, and that's where he'd been tonight. For now he put the papers back, hoping fervently that the judge would be able to explain it all to him in the morning. He closed the file and put it back where he'd found it, closing the drawer and even, hoping that this final touch would be necessary, unpicking the lock.

00000

He was back at the hospital by seven o'clock, nowhere close to visiting hours but at least past dawn. He used the ER lobby elevator again and, as he'd hoped, having seen him earlier in the presence of Authority, no one tried to stop him when he got off on the sixth floor. When he got to the hallway outside 612 he heard voices—the same nurse from earlier, he thought, and Hardcastle's familiar grumble. He smiled in relief again. _Complaining about the food. _

He peered around the edge of the doorway. The nurse looked up from the bedside and managed a small smile as she blurted out, "Oh, look Mr. Hardcastle, it's your son."

Mark started to correct her but hadn't even gotten the first word out when the judge's eyes had tracked over to him. The brief , _happy_, expectant look fell away, replaced a moment later by disappointed indifference. McCormick felt his breath catch in his throat.

"I think you have the wrong room," the judge said politely.

The nurse looked briefly puzzled, then a little embarrassed as she hastily finished tucking the blood pressure cuff into the wire bin above the bed. "'Scuse me. I'll be back in a bit." She patted his arm.

McCormick had already taken a step backward into the hallway, out of sight of the judge. The nurse pushed past him, taking him by the arm as she passed and propelling him a little further down the hall.

"I _am_ sorry," she said softly, and she did seem so. "I shouldn't have assumed; but the way you were last night . . . and he was talking about his son this morning, asking about him—"

"His son's dead, too," McCormick replied dully. Now the nurse was frowning. "I'm just . . . a _friend_." He leaned back against the wall; there was a squeezing pain in the middle of his chest. "He doesn't talk about his son."

The nurse nodded, "How long?"

McCormick put his hand to his forehead, "Um . . . about fourteen years—it was before his wife died. I've only known him, ah, three and a half, no . . . _six_."

The nurse didn't question this last discrepancy but merely nodded again and said, "I'll tell Dr. Winston. He's the neurosurgeon. He usually makes rounds early." She stood there, hesitating, then finally asked, "Do you want to go back in there?"

McCormick jerked his head back up, "_No_ . . . God, no. I'll just upset him." He shook his head slowly. "Ah . . ." he looked back up the hall, "maybe there's somewhere I can wait, until the doctor gets here?"

She walked him to the sixth floor waiting area, near the nurses' station, and pointed him to a seat. "Wait," he said abruptly, as she started to turn away. She paused, looking back down at him. McCormick hesitated, then spoke in a low, worried voice, "He's okay? I mean . . . otherwise? He's making sense, acting normal?"

She nodded once, and gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Absolutely. He was grousing about hospital food right before you got there. I didn't know there was anything wrong. Honestly."

He sat back in the chair and let out a sigh. "Good. That's good."

Her smile had turned sympathetic, "Do you want me to tell him anything?"

McCormick looked up at her quizzically then, after a moment's thought. "Yeah, tell him Frank's coming. Frank'll be here soon."

"Frank?"

"Yeah," McCormick smiled back, "the police officer, he was here last night, too." Then he added, with a certain levelness, "He's an old friend."

00000

It was almost 8:30 when the elevator doors opened and Frank stepped out. He saw McCormick, sitting slumped in a chair in the far corner of the waiting area, elbow propped on his knee and his chin on the heel of his hand.

"Shoulda figured you'd beat me to it," Frank chided. "What happened, the nurse kick you out already?"

Mark jerked up from his deep stare. The look in his eyes was anxious concern. Frank immediately regretted his glibness. He started again on a more serious tone, "What's up?"

"He was expecting Tommy," McCormick said, simply.

"Oh." Frank spent a moment envisioning that moment. Then he added grimly, "Not good. What time was that?"

McCormick checked his watch and said wearily, "'Bout an hour ago. I've been waiting for the doctor to show up."

Frank looked warily down the hall, then back at McCormick.

"Why don't you go down and see him," the younger man said quietly. Then, when Frank didn't show any signs of immediate motion, he added, "Haven't figured out what to tell him about Nancy, yet, huh?"

Frank gave him a quick glance of confirmation. He'd spent most of the hours since leaving here trying to convince himself that he wouldn't have to deal with the issue. He should have known better than to doubt Mark's gut instincts.

But he couldn't leave Milt alone, either. That would be rank desertion, and if the man was still expecting his wife and son to show up, God, someone had to go in and deal with that. He moved slowly down the hall toward 612, aware that Mark had gotten up and was following behind.

Frank straightened his shoulders and assumed a reassuringly bland smile as he stepped through the doorway. Milt was sitting up in bed, looking down at a barely touched breakfast tray with a look of disgust. At Harper's arrival he looked up and smiled. The smile drifted into puzzlement a second later.

"Frank," he said quizzically, "what the hell happened to your hair?"

Frank was momentarily taken aback. Yes, it was an easier question than he'd been expecting but still . . . He reached up for a second and touched his very bald dome, trying to project back thirteen years or so, and suddenly realized that this was exactly the opening he'd needed—maybe the only way to quickly make a point.

"Milt," he said calmly, "Do you know the date?" Frank could hear Mark step in behind him and take a breath. Hardcastle looked past him, then back at Frank, trying to smile but having it fall a little flat.

"Sure," he answered, but didn't elaborate. Frank kept his eyes fixed on the man in the bed. He let his eyebrows rise a little in question.

Hardcastle's eyes cut away for a second, glanced out the window and then back again. "He's with _you_, huh?"

Frank looked over his shoulder at Mark, who suddenly let out the breath he'd been holding and seemed awfully pale. "Frank?" McCormick murmured, "Now what?"

"Mark, sit down." Harper pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. "Milt, we gotta talk." He pulled up a chair of his own closer to the bed. Hardcastle looked wary. Frank asked him one more time, firmly, "The date?"

Hardcastle made a little dismissive gesture with one hand. Frank leaned forward, looking at him hard, refusing to be dismissed. Mark said, "Frank—"

"Be quiet, Mark." Harper said. "Milt?"

"It's winter," Hardcastle said with sullen hesitance, and then, "1971," spoken halfway between a statement and a question. "Where's Nancy?" This last part bordered on plaintive. "What the hell's going on, Frank?"

"Frank, please—"

Harper shot another look over his shoulder at Mark, silencing him. Then he turned back to Hardcastle, softening his voice a little. "You sure about that, Milt? 1971?"

The man in the bed no longer looked sure of anything. He said, "You said there was an accident. A truck. Is Nancy all right?"

"Nancy wasn't in the accident."

Hardcastle gave an audible sigh of relief. "Thank God."

"It's Tuesday, Milt, December 16th."

"Okay," Hardcastle huffed. "Yeah. December."

"It's 1986." Frank paused. Milt was staring at him in blank disbelief. "_'86, _" Harper repeated, with careful emphasis. Still the blank stare.

"No," Hardcastle stated flatly. "It's not."

Frank reached up again and touched the top of his own head. Hardcastle followed the movement. He turned away again for a moment, looking out the window. Then he turned back abruptly, with a stubborn, questioning look in his eye. "_Where's_ Nancy?"

This time a voice from the doorway intervened. "Mr. Hardcastle?" A tall man with salt and pepper hair, in a doctor's coat, stepped in. The name 'Winston' was embroidered over the pocket. Frank step out of the way, moving back to join Mark.

"Neurosurgeon," McCormick whispered to him.

Winston's examination was brief and Hardcastle performed the physical maneuvers unexceptionally. After some simple mathematical questions, Winston asked, abruptly, "Who is the President of the United States, Mr. Hardcastle?"

A second's hesitation later the judge replied, "Nix . . ." paused again, and then, decisively, "_Richard Nixon."_

The neurosurgeon glanced over his shoulder at the other two men, then nodded to himself, and said, "With regards to the injuries you sustained from the accident, you have, at worst, a concussion. I would advise repeating the CAT scan, with IV contrast this time, just to be certain, but I do not believe that your current symptoms can be explained by blunt trauma."

Frank had seen Milt's brow furrow at the words 'current symptoms' but he seemed to be tracking on the rest of what was being said.

"I've asked one of my colleagues, Dr. Neely, to step around and have a look at you. He's a neurologist. He may have some other suggestions to make. I'll, of course, be available if there are any further developments." And with that, Dr. Winston smiled and made his departure.

Frank felt Mark's hand on his shoulder and heard him say, in a low voice, "We've been traded down to triple A—a neurosurgeon for a neurologist . . . and a psychiatrist to be named at a later date." There was no levity in the remark. Frank recognized it for what it was—a man who was trying desperately to keep a grip on the impossible.

Frank looked back over at Hardcastle, who was still frowning and now said, slowly and with an air of puzzlement, "1986?"

"Frank, that guy is right," Mark went on, almost without a pause. "I've been knocked silly enough times to know. You lose a couple of minutes, maybe an hour. Hell, I even lost a month and a half one time, but it doesn't last this long and it's not fifteen _years_."

The judge had picked up on this last part and now was staring at the two of them with a look of barely contained anxiety. "Fifteen years? Frank?" And then he took a longer look at McCormick, his eyes narrowing down a bit. "And who's _he_?"

Mark wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. "God, Frank, you better introduce us."

00000

All in all, Frank thought it went better than he would have expected. Mark had held it together when Milt listened politely to the name and showed not a glimmer of recognition. The judge had extended a polite handshake. Mark had provided his own job description, "I'm a law student. I help out with things." That was suitably vague, Frank thought, but Milt didn't ask for details. "I live in the gatehouse."

Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up at this last bit of information. He'd turned his gaze back to Frank and asked, "How long?"

But Mark answered instead. "Almost three and a half years."

Hardcastle frowned. "You're my law clerk?"

Mark looked at Frank who let out a sigh and said, "Milt, you're retired. You've _been_ retired for three and a half years. You don't have a clerk."

Hardcastle took this in without comment. Altogether too little comment, Frank thought. _Too much to think about at once, he needs . . . time._

And then, after another long moment of silence, Milt said quietly, "Nancy's dead."

It had the sound of cold, implacable reasoning, not memory. Mark was staring fixedly out the window, as if he'd known it was coming, and had wanted to be looking anywhere but at the judge. Frank was left pinned in Hardcastle's unwavering gaze. There was nothing to do but say, "Yes."

"How long?"

"Thirteen years."

The judge nodded. "I . . . _knew_. She wasn't here," he added simply.

The atmosphere in the room had become stiflingly heavy, with three men who had rarely been a loss for words, all frozen in silence. Again it was Hardcastle who broke the impasse. He gestured Mark toward the door. "Why don't you . . . get me a glass of water," he said it kindly enough, ignoring the pitcher and glass on the nightstand.

Mark tried to smile back. "How long, Judge?"

"Couple minutes . . . maybe five."

With Mark gone a few steps down the hallway, Hardcastle turned back to Frank and asked urgently, "How long have I needed looking after?"

Again Frank had been caught by surprise. He said, "Looking _after_?" with enough incredulity that even Hardcastle's worry seemed to diminish. "God, no, is that what you think?" Frank's smile was honest. "Though, I gotta say, there've been a couple of times where I thought you _both_ needed a keeper."

"Then what the hell _does_ he do?" Hardcastle looked even more confused.

Frank puzzled over that one for a moment. "Well, some of the yard work, but not so much of that anymore, since he started law school." He looked at Hardcastle, frowning as he searched for the words. "Milt, I don't know how to put this but, you kinda took up criminal justice as a _hobby._" Hardcastle was giving him another blank look. Frank decided it was a bad time to use the Lone Ranger analogy. He settled for simply, "You went after some of the bad guys."

"And him?"

"Mark watched your back."

There was a knock on the doorframe. Frank looked up, expecting to see Mark himself. Instead it was another doctor, this one younger, with no name on his coat and a vaguely apologetic air about him. "Mr. Hardcastle?" He got a nod from the judge. "I'm Peter Silvestre, Dr. Neely's resident. May I ask you some questions?" Another nod and the young man came in.

This one looked like he was settling in for the long haul, Frank decided, and he gave Milt a final pat on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in a bit."

He slipped out into the hallway and wandered back down to the waiting area, thinking hard. He found Mark back in the same chair, his head resting back against the wall and his eyes closed. He opened them and looked at Frank wearily as he approached.

"So, what'd he say when you told him he's got an ex-con living in his gate house?"

"I didn't get to that part, yet." Frank admitted sheepishly as he pulled up another chair and sat down.

"Oh, leave the hard stuff to me, huh?"

Frank shrugged. "I told him about Nancy, didn't I?"

"No, he figured _that _out by himself." Then a pause, Mark was looking down at his feet. "Did he ask about Tom?"

Frank frowned, "No . . . I think he had enough on his plate."

"'Six impossible things before breakfast,'" Mark muttered, and then, "We are definitely down the rabbit hole on this one." He looked up. "What if he stays this way; what if we don't get him back?"

"Mark, we haven't _lost_ him. He's pretty together."

"No, _you_ haven't lost him. You've know him, what? How many years, Frank?"

"Maybe thirty, almost. I was a rookie cop and he was a rookie judge." Frank smiled.

"Okay, you and he have a past. He and I have _nothing_." Mark dropped his voice a notch and he leaned forward. "He doesn't even remember putting me in _prison_."

"Either he'll remember," Frank replied quietly, "or you'll start all over again."

Mark shook his head. "You can't step in the same stream twice."

The two men sat there in silence for a while.

The elevator doors opened and a small group of doctors emerged, one older and portly, the other three much younger, the youngest a mere medical student, with a short white coat and an eager, earnest smile. The senior member of the group paused at the nurses' station and studied the board for a moment before ushering his flock down the hallway. Mark had heard one of them address him as 'Dr. Neely' and immediately he sat up and cast a glance to the side.

They didn't move very far down the hall before they apparently encountered their colleague. Then they drifted back a bit, well within earshot of the waiting area. Frank made a move to clear out but Mark had his hand out one the other man's arm, silently holding him in place.

"But—"

Mark shook his head once and said, "No, I have a right, if anybody does."

Frank thought about that a moment and then silently conceded. Milt had some relatives, it was true, but Harper hadn't thought to call any of _them_ last night, when he'd first gotten the news.

They heard a younger voice, serious and straightforward, "This is a sixty-eight year old man, previously in good health, who presents with . . ." now there was a moment's hesitation, as the presenter slipped out of the formula, "Well, he doesn't really have a 'chief complaint'. But it is evident that he is suffering from profound retrograde amnesia, covering a period of greater than ten years. The onset was sometime during the night. It was preceded by blunt trauma to the fronto-parietal area, an MVA. There was a prolonged period of unconsciousness reported by the emergency room staff – upwards of forty-five minutes, but within an hour of arrival they reported a normal Glasgow Coma Scale, and orientation in two spheres. He couldn't tell them the date at all. The initial non-infused CAT scan was negative. CBC, BMP, PT, PTT all normal. Alcohol and tox screens negative."

"And your exam? Stick to the pertinents, Silvestre."

"Awake and alert. He initially stated it was 1986, but on further questioning admitted he believed it to be sometime in late 1971. Otherwise, he has no focal neuro deficits, good preservation of language function and visual-spatial skills. Also social skills, mostly—he got pretty snippy when I asked him to do serial sevens."

"'Snippy'?"

"He threw me out." Silvestre sighed audibly.

"Prevarication? An attempt to cover a deficit? "

"No, more like a guy who's 'tired of answering stupid questions'; at least that's what he said."

Frank looked over at Mark who was smiling and shaking his head.

The older man in the hallway continued his questioning. "Very well, then, what's your differential diagnosis, Silvestre?"

"Post–traumatic retrograde amnesia, because of the MVA, of course, but the presentation is pretty atypical. Then there's stroke, something in the distribution of the posterior cerebral circulation, or Transient Global Amnesia."

"And you're voting for—?"

"TGA. If it resolves in the next twenty-four hours."

"And if not?"

"Then I'd get another CT . . . and a psych consult."

Frank caught Mark's frown.

"Shall we go say 'hello' to Mr. Hardcastle?" Dr. Neely said cheerfully.

"I want to see you get him to do serial sevens," Silvestre replied, sounding equally cheerful, having gotten through his presentation unscathed. The voices were moving off.

Frank patted Mark on the knee. "Twenty-four hours, see?" he smiled.

"'If'," replied Mark. "What about, 'And if not?'"

Frank had no reply. They sat in silence again.

It was Neely who sought them out, a few minutes later. He'd sent his entourage on ahead, telling them he'd catch up with them on the next floor. Then he introduced himself to Harper and said, "Mr. Hardcastle told me you might be waiting out here." He looked questioningly at McCormick.

"I'm someone he doesn't remember," Mark said. "What's TGA?"

The doctor smiled. "So you heard Silvestre's little case presentation, eh?"

McCormick nodded. "So what is it, some kind of stroke?"

"No, not that. No one's sure exactly what causes it, but it's a best-case scenario for your friend in there because, unlike a stroke, it never lasts longer than one day, and it usually doesn't come back. At any rate, and for a number of reasons, I don't think your friend is having a stroke. . . It will be interesting to see if he has any anterograde symptoms," Now Neely was almost talking to himself, only McCormick's worried look brought him back to the discussion at hand. "What I mean to say, is whether or not he'll retain what he's learning as he goes along. Usually with TGA, patients don't during the acute attack. My impression is that Mr. Hardcastle is pretty quick on the up-take and is trying to meet us more than halfway."

"You mean he's going to start faking it once he's got two facts to rub together?" McCormick asked.

Neely smiled at this characterization, "Yes, that is what I saw happening, even the short time I was in there. Which doesn't mean he actually _believes_ everything we're telling him. It's just that—"

"He wants to get the hell out of this hospital and go see for himself," Mark sighed.

Neely nodded, "I'd say that's just about it. But if it _is_ TGA, we should see a very good recovery by tomorrow morning."

"And if it isn't?" McCormick prodded. "And it's not a stroke?"

"Then what's left is something called a fugue state," Neely frowned. "That means 'flight' and it's a psychiatric form of amnesia, which usually is the result of the patient being unable to deal with some psychologically devastating event or situation."

"No way." McCormick shook his head emphatically. "I've never seen _anything_ that man couldn't deal with . . . Frank?"

Frank said nothing.

Neely looked at both men for a moment and then tented his fingers. "Well, time will tell us more. I would suggest you not give him _too_ much ammunition. I'd like to be able to tell if he's really better tomorrow."

Frank nodded. McCormick looked glum. Neely rose and left.

Mark barely waited for the elevator doors to close before he turned to Harper again with a contentious expression. "Frank? You can't really think this is some sort of _psychiatric_ problem, that he's _choosing_ to not remember?"

"Well, no," Frank replied, but it wasn't the sort of wholehearted, no reserve kind of 'no' that McCormick would have expected.

"Okay, then, why the hell now?" McCormick said through nearly gritted teeth. "Sure he was happier then, but . . ." he hesitated. He stared down at his own hands and then up at Frank again, frowning. "I _couldn't_ let him run around being the Lone Ranger by himself. God, Frank you have _no_ idea the trouble he'd get into."

Frank smiled a little. "Oh, I have an idea. I'm not saying you were wrong, Mark. I'm just saying it probably wasn't easy. Change never is. You know that." He patted the younger man's shoulder. "Anyway, no, I don't think he'd ever willingly give up the last few years."

"But if not willingly, and if it's not a stroke, or this TGA thing, then maybe somebody _took_ it from him."

"How?" Frank asked, and then, "That's not possible."

"I dunno, Frank, but if it's not the 'best-case scenario', then at least I think I have a place to start looking."

"Not with _him_ as back-up."

"Of course not."

"And _not_ by yourself," Frank added sharply.

"Who do you think I am, the Lone Ranger?" Mark smiled.

"You're supposed to say, 'No, Frank, I promise I won't.'" Harper shook his head. "If _you_ drop back fifteen years, I'll have a hot-rodding teenager on my hands."

McCormick laughed thinly, but there was a keen edge of worry and fatigue to it. Frank gave him an appraising look. "Okay, you're going home."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. I'll stay here and keep him company. I leave you in there alone with him for half an hour and he'll pump _everything_ out of you. That Dr. Neely won't know if he's coming or going tomorrow morning."

"But it'll all be all right by tomorrow anyway, right Frank?" Mark said, looking down the hallway.

"Yeah," Frank said quietly, "maybe sooner. I'll call you if there's any change."

Mark nodded, and then asked, "Should I say good-bye?"

"No," Frank said firmly, "when you come back tomorrow, you can say hello, instead."

00000

No calls were made that afternoon, but Frank himself showed up that evening. He saw the light on through the den window and went directly to the main house. Mark answered the door, looking no better than he had that morning.

"No change?" he asked and, when Frank shook his head, he added, "Well, we've still got a few hours. Are you going back?"

"No, I don't think so. He was asleep when I left."

McCormick checked his watch. "This early?"

"He seemed tired, or maybe he was just tired of trying to interrogate me." Frank smiled. "Though that's kinda like breathing for him. Anyway," he followed Mark into the den, "I thought maybe the rest would do him some good." He shrugged, "Can't hurt."

He watched Mark plop back into the chair he'd apparently been occupying for a while, law textbooks open around it, a notebook on the padded armrest, a coffee cup perched on the table alongside. He seriously doubted that any real studying had occurred this evening, but it was nice to see the kid was at least going through the motions.

"Exams this week?"

"Ah, Friday, last two—Criminal and Property . . . I think I've got Criminal nailed."

"Yeah," Frank dropped into the chair opposite, "nothing beats personal experience," he quipped lightly. Mark made a face, but didn't seem to have the energy to retort. Frank felt a little guilty. "You want me to pick you up tomorrow?"

McCormick thought about it for a moment and the replied, "Yeah, that'd be good. What time?"

_So damn ordinary_, Frank thought. _It's not just Milt; the kid's whole life just got yanked out from under him, and here we are, making an appointment like there really is a tomorrow._

"Nine o'clock?" he asked. Another face. "Okay, eight-thirty. No earlier. You ought to get some sleep, too."

McCormick nodded, looking around blearily. "You know," he started hesitantly, "Monday night I was sitting here, studying. He was over there," he gestured vaguely in the direction of the desk, "looking at some damn papers. I don't know what they were. We hardly talked. I think I asked him one question."

"You were preoccupied."

"We might as well've been strangers."

00000

Eight-thirty, he stood on the porch, trying his best not to think, 'And if not?' _Naming calls_. Frank pulled up, not even a minute late.

Mark opened the door and climbed in, leaning back and closing his eyes. "No phone calls, huh?"

"No."

"None here, either. He would've called, wouldn't he," Mark said grimly, a statement, not a question.

"Maybe he's not awake yet."

"He shoots hoops at 6:30 every morning," he faltered, "at least he has since _I've_ known him."

00000

The sixth floor was mostly quiet, and Frank had become a familiar face to the desk clerk, who waved him through without comment. McCormick was drifting behind a little as they headed down the hallway. The older man stopped, forcing him to catch up.

"Come on," Frank said, "in." He coaxed him to the doorway but went into the dimly lit room first.

On first glance it might have looked like Hardcastle _was_ still asleep, lying on his side facing the doorway. There weren't any lights on in the room and the shade was pulled. But despite all that, the man's eyes were open and, as soon as they'd entered, he said, "Hello, Frank . . . Mark."

The greeting had been so matter-of-fact that it might have been wholly unremarkable, except for the slight hesitation and the entirely unexpected use of McCormick's given name. Mark gritted his teeth into a smile and replied, "Hello, Judge," just to keep up his end of the charade, but he felt that same squeezing pain in the center of his chest that had been there the morning before.

"How are you?" Frank asked, with more than the usual casual interest.

"Oh, fine," Hardcastle replied. "I think I should be able to go home today."

"Maybe," Frank replied, very evenly. "We'll see what the doctor says."

As if to prove the adage, they heard Neely and his entourage in the hallway. "Good morning, Mr. Hardcastle," the doctor lead his troops into the room. Frank and Mark moved over to the window side to make space. "And how are you doing this morning?"

"Much better," the judge smiled. "_Much_ better."

"And the date today is?"

"December 17th, Wednesday."

"The year?"

"1986."

"And the president is?"

Hardcastle frowned, "This is getting a little annoying, Doc."

"Humor me."

"Reagan," he answered calmly.

Neely looked at Silvestre with a small satisfied smile, "TGA." To the judge he said, "Excellent."

McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, head down, his elbow cradled in his other hand. "Doc . . . ask him who the vice-president is."

Hardcastle shot him a hostile glance. The room had suddenly gotten a lot quieter.

Neely's eyebrows had gone up a notch.

The judge was looking toward the window again. Under his breath they heard a softly muttered, "Dammit." And then, a little louder, with barely controlled anger, "Frank, get him out of here."

In the hallway, Frank turned to Mark and said, low and intense, "Do you think that was such a good idea?"

"I dunno," McCormick slumped back against the wall and shook his head. Then he looked at Frank with bewildered concern. "Were you gonna let him_ lie_ his way out of there? God, he isn't any better than he was yesterday. And he _doesn't_ have what they think he has. I don't think he has _any_ of the things they think he might have." He looked back down the hallway toward the doorway of room 612. Neely and his crew were still inside.

"Frank," he went on, "maybe somebody _did_ do this to him. He doesn't know what he was doing that night." McCormick fidgeted, "He doesn't even know he needs someone to watch his back."

"Well," Frank said blandly, "I'm not sure getting him royally pissed off at you was a good first step at rebuilding a relationship."

McCormick grinned worriedly, "Aw, hell, Frank, who says you can't step in the same stream twice?"

Dr. Neely and the others emerged from the room. McCormick straightened up as they approached. Neely gave him an appraising look and said, "Well, _that_ was interesting."

McCormick shrugged. "Not that TGA thing, huh?"

"I'm afraid not, unless it is a unique variant, a reportable case." Neely looked as though the chance of that was disappointingly slim. "On the other hand, yesterday's repeat CAT scan was unchanged, still normal. And there has been no other detectable deterioration."

"So, now what, Doc?"

"Mr. Hardcastle is adamant about returning home." Neely looked thoughtful. "His home is the same one he resided in fifteen years ago?" Mark nodded. "Does he have family? Anyone to look after him? At least for the first week or so; after that we may see."

Frank looked at Mark. Mark looked at his feet. After a moment, he lifted his head. "Doc, I dunno if he'll let me, especially after—"

"I already showed him the commitment papers."

Mark blanched. "You wouldn't—"

"'Inability to care for self,' it's a valid criterion for commitment. As your little demonstration showed, that is still a very disoriented man in there, but he understands the alternative. He is willing to have someone stay with him."

"He's lying to you again," Mark said bluntly.

"I know. It doesn't matter, as long as he can't get away with it around you."

"Frank?"

"Your call."

Mark turned back to the doctor. "You think he might get better at home?"

"Possibly. I doubt he'll get worse. I'd like to see him after a few days. And I'd like him to make an appointment with a colleague of mine, Dr. Westerfield."

"Psychiatrist?" Mark asked doubtfully.

Neely nodded.

"Okay." Mark let out a sigh. "If he says he's willing."

00000

An hour later the three of them stood side-by-side on the front steps of St. Mary's, Frank in the middle, Hardcastle looking disgruntled, but relieved to be out.

Frank said, "Just wait here; I'll bring the car around." Then he stepped away. Mark just stood, hands in pockets waiting for—

"Let's get this straight," there was nothing even the slightest bit disoriented about Hardcastle's voice or demeanor. "I don't need anyone to look after me."

Mark kept his mouth shut. He nodded.

The judge's eyes narrowed. "Just so you understand."

There was a long silence. Frank pulled up. Hardcastle gave the car a hard look, then opened the door for himself and slid down inside. Mark got in the back silently. Frank pulled away.

The judge fidgeted a little, as though he'd had a thought that wouldn't let go. As they pulled out into traffic, heading toward the PCH, he turned to Frank and asked, "Where the hell's Tom?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Harper tried to stall, but cursing about the hazards of LA traffic—the first thing that came to mind—only bought him a couple of minutes, and Hardcastle was almost shouting when he asked for the third time, "Frank, where is Tom?" Not knowing what else to do, the detective maneuvered the car out of traffic, pulled to a stop on the side of the road, and turned to face his friend.

Watching from the backseat, McCormick had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out some kind of comforting lie—out of town on a business trip, living cross country, anything—but Frank was bracing himself to deliver the truth.

Harper let a couple of beats pass as he gathered his thoughts. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd delivered this sort of news to unsuspecting families, but it never got easier, and this seemed particularly unfair somehow, that his friend should have to suffer through this moment twice in his lifetime. But, there was never a good way to say it, so that's what he finally said. "Milt, there's never a good way to say this. Tommy joined the Marines— "

That was as far as he got before Hardcastle interrupted. "No," he said thickly, a sudden, fearful knowledge in his tone, "don't. Frank, please, don't."

"I'm sorry," Harper continued softly. "It was 1972, in Viet Nam . . . " he trailed off, waiting to see if the judge wanted to hear more right now.

McCormick could see the horror settle into Hardcastle's eyes, slowly drowning out a light that he was only just now realizing he'd never seen before. And with an immediate clarity, he realized that he was watching the beginning of a deep and abiding grief that he'd never fully recognized for what it was.

After a moment, Hardcastle muttered through clenched teeth, "Tell me."

Harper let out an inaudible sigh; he had almost hoped Hardcastle wouldn't ask. "He enlisted in the spring of '72; he was deployed by July. He was really excited, Milt; said it was his turn to help some people."

Hardcastle nodded. "He was always saying he'd get his chance," he said dully.

"He was a hero, Milt," Harper continued quietly. "He was about four months into his tour when his patrol was led into an ambush. Some kids had been locked in a shack in a deserted village; when the patrol tried to release them, they were attacked. They were trapped, pinned down; they couldn't all make it out. Three men stayed behind to draw the fire and cover the evacuation of the kids." He paused before adding, "He died to save others, Milt, to save kids. I know that really doesn't make it better, but you should know that."

Still sitting quietly, McCormick tried desperately to tune out the conversation, feeling a sudden rush of guilt at his presence. As often as he had wondered about Thomas Hardcastle—both his life and his death—he would've given almost anything not to be hearing these details now.

"How can I not remember this?" Hardcastle asked mournfully. "And, God, what it must've done to Nancy. How can someone forget something like that, Frank? Am I…am I crazy? Is that why everything's gone for me?"

The desperation in Hardcastle's voice was finally too much for McCormick to bear. As much as he understood that he was seen as an intruder right now, he couldn't stay silent. He leaned forward to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and spoke comfortingly. "You're not crazy, Milt, and I am so sorry."

But Hardcastle jerked away roughly, and hissed, in a voice colder than McCormick had ever heard, "Don't pretend to know what I'm feeling. Don't pretend to know _me_," and then turned to stare out the passenger window.

Mark withdrew his hand quickly, pressing himself hard against the backseat, wishing he could go farther. He heard Harper start to intervene, "Milt, he—" but he shook his head roughly at the lieutenant. Now was not the time to be worried about _his_ feelings, though he felt as if someone had just driven a cold spike through his heart. God, how was he going to do this?

He became vaguely aware that Hardcastle was asking to go home, and that Harper was starting the car. He thought Frank might've been trying to catch his eye in the mirror, might've even turned around for a second to say something, but none of it really registered. He was only aware of the cold, dull emptiness he could feel working its way through his heart.

00000

Harper pulled the car to a stop in the drive at Gull's Way. There was no immediate movement from the front seat, but McCormick couldn't get out quickly enough. "I'll get the door," he offered, then slipped out of the car and practically vaulted up the steps.

Hardcastle watched, trying to make sense of it all, but starting with the simplest ideas. "He has keys to my house?"

"I told you he lives here, Milt," Harper replied patiently.

The jurist nodded slowly, trying to accept the things—so many things—that he had no reason to believe. Now he watched McCormick on the porch in front of an open door, undecided. It seemed the kid's first instinct was to return to the car, but he stopped after a single step. But he didn't seem eager to step into the house alone, either, so he finally just stood, frozen in uncertainty.

Hardcastle turned back to Frank. "You're coming in?" He couldn't quite make it sound as casual as he had intended.

"Of course," Harper answered, and climbed out of the car.

Hardcastle led the way silently inside, not noticing the lost look on McCormick's face, or the encouraging smile Harper offered as the kid gave an almost imperceptible shrug and stood aside to let the other men pass.

00000

McCormick was watching Hardcastle closely as they completed their tour of the house. It was a strange procession; eerily silent after Hardcastle's initial comment of, "I wanna look around," and Harper's insistence that they would all go.

The two men had followed the judge from room to room as he surveyed everything, watching him occasionally drag a hand slowly across a piece of furniture, or stop to examine an item from a shelf. But Hardcastle had not asked any questions, or offered any information, and the others had followed his lead and remained silent as well. They had examined the entire downstairs floor, then upstairs, then trudged slowly back down the stairs to finish up back in the den, right where they had started.

Now McCormick watched as the judge crossed the room and slowly rounded the desk, then sank into the chair. He found himself holding his breath, hoping that the tour had helped. He knew Hardcastle understood things were different; he'd seen it in the judge's eyes the minute they'd stepped into the den the first time. To McCormick, the den was as it always had been, but who knew how many changes might come over a room in fifteen years? Who knew how many changes might have come over the entire house? If it could help Hardcastle believe that time had really passed, maybe it could help him remember.

_It doesn't work that way._ The unwelcome thought jarred him from his hopeful reverie. _Probably not_, he admitted to himself. But he was still going to hope.

Hardcastle's eyes had been roaming about the room almost incessantly, but now they came to a rest on Harper, as the detective dropped into one of the armchairs. McCormick saw the hesitation on the older man's face. He cleared his throat. "Judge? Did you want me to . . . get you a glass of water?"

Hardcastle managed a weak smile, started to nod, then stopped himself. Finally he shook his head. "Nah, never mind about that." The voice was dull, almost resigned. He turned his attention back to Frank and gestured across the room. "Where's the Picasso?"

Harper glanced around behind him, but his expression held no particular recollection. He shrugged.

"Um . . . " McCormick spoke up hesitantly. "You mean that clown guy, Judge?"

Hardcastle looked sharply in his direction, then laughed slightly, though the sound held no real humor. "Yeah," he said, still without much inflection, "that clown guy. All dressed in white."

_He's trying to appease me_, McCormick thought with sudden certainty. _Or, more likely, Frank. _He nodded slowly. "You had that moved to the gatehouse." He hoped this version of Milton Hardcastle didn't want the thing hanging back in the den.

The judge accepted the information, then nodded once. "I never did really like that thing."

"So I've heard," McCormick commented, hoping his relief didn't show. Then he lapsed back into silence, wondering when Hardcastle would get back to asking about the important things. He was still standing there wondering several minutes later when Harper's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Mark, why don't you come in and stay a while?" He indicated a vacant chair.

McCormick crossed slowly to the chair and sat down a bit stiffly. He hadn't really given any conscious thought to his decision to stay on the landing—as close to neutral territory as he could get—but now that he'd been asked in, it certainly didn't escape his attention that it wasn't Hardcastle who did the inviting. _This is going to be harder than I thought._

The three men sat, fidgeting and staring around the room, anything to avoid making conversation. When he couldn't stand the silence any longer, McCormick finally said, "Judge, are you hungry? I can fix some lunch. Frank?"

They both seemed to give the question far more consideration than it warranted, but Hardcastle finally replied, "I could eat."

McCormick looked at the detective, and was horrified to see him shaking his head. "I think I should go, Mark."

Harper approached the younger man, extending a hand in farewell. "You guys are never gonna talk while I'm here," he whispered, as he leaned close. He raised his voice and glanced over at the judge. "Milt, you should take it easy. Get some rest."

"Well, if you're sure," McCormick answered hesitantly. "But I make a pretty mean soup and sandwich combo."

Harper grinned slightly, offering what little reassurance he could muster. "Maybe next time." He turned back to Hardcastle. "Milt, why don't you see me out? Mark, I'll call you guys later."

McCormick gave a half-hearted wave, and waited until the others were out of the room to roll his eyes. If nothing else, he figured they'd get awfully good at finding ways to get rid of him. He would be more bothered by that, except that there were few people in the world he trusted more than Frank Harper. And since the guy at the _top_ of that list currently had no idea that he'd ever existed before yesterday, there really wasn't much point in begrudging the men a few private moments together. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen.

00000

Harper hesitated before sliding behind the wheel. Hardcastle had followed him all the way to the car, but hadn't said a word. Now the judge was standing, hands jammed into his pockets, staring at his feet. Frank reached out, gently grasping his friend's arms. "Milt. I know—" he hesitated a second, then continued, "at least, I can _imagine_, how hard this has been for you. If there was anything I could do . . . "

Hardcastle tried to force a smile. "You could stay."

"You're gonna be fine, Milt," Harper answered softly. "I am so sorry about everything you're dealing with right now, but whatever's going on with this whole memory thing, we'll get to the bottom of it." He took a half-second to hope that he sounded more confident than he felt, then continued, "You won't be alone." He couldn't ignore the brief snort of disbelief.

Tightening his grip on Hardcastle's arms, he gazed intently into the judge's eyes and spoke sincerely. "I know you don't know this right now, but being here with Mark is exactly what you would want. No one could be more dedicated to helping you—whatever you need—and, up until a couple of days ago, you knew that. Milt, that kid would die for you, so give him a chance. You don't know him right now, and you don't want to trust him; that's okay. But trust _me_. I'm telling you, he's okay. Don't shut him out. He'll take anything you dish out, Milt, but don't put him through anything you're gonna regret when you're better."

This time, the judge got the smile right. "You're telling me to be nice."

The detective grinned and gave the arms one final squeeze. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. Think you can do that for me?"

"Okay," Hardcastle conceded, "I'll do my best." He watched Harper climb into the car and close the door, then leaned down on the open window. "Frank? Thank you for being honest with me about . . . everything."

"Always," Harper said simply.

Hardcastle watched silently as the car disappeared down the drive.

00000

Hardcastle looked dubiously at the sandwich in front of him. "Isn't there any cheddar cheese? I usually prefer cheddar on—" he broke off as a bowl was set before him. "Except when I have tomato soup," he finished, staring at the red liquid, disbelieving.

McCormick placed two glasses of iced tea on the table, then turned to get his own food. "I know that, Judge," he said as he seated himself across from Hardcastle.

They busied themselves with the food for a few minutes, though neither really had much of an appetite.

"Frank told me I should be nice," Hardcastle suddenly said into the silence.

McCormick couldn't resist. "And did he also tell you that would be a switch?" But the small grin faded quickly as Hardcastle just stared back at him in confusion. "Sorry," he muttered, and the quiet descended again.

After another few moments, Hardcastle spoke again. "Mark?"

McCormick grimaced slightly; this first name bit was wearing on his nerves fast. "Yeah, Judge?"

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know you." He hesitated. "Although I guess 'don't _remember_ you' is probably more accurate. How come you live here?"

McCormick struggled not to let the spoon fall from his hand, but he surprised himself with how easily the answer came. "A few years ago, right about the time you were retiring from the bench, a good friend of mine was murdered. You helped me catch the guys who did it. That was our first case together, but it wasn't our last." He took another swallow of soup, silently cursing himself. _That's it? That's all you're gonna say? You're gonna start this relationship with a lie?_

_It's not a lie_, he argued with himself. _It's an abbreviated truth._

"So we work together?" the judge asked, still trying to understand. "But why live here?"

"I work for you," McCormick clarified, "and crime-fighting isn't exactly a nine to five job. Room and board was included in the deal." _Abbreviated truth, my ass_, his mind scoffed.

"Frank said about three years?"

"About that," Mark confirmed. "A little longer."

"But you're in law school?"

McCormick pushed his soup aside. Eating and truth abbreviating was too hard to handle at once. "Yep." He grinned a little. "Following in some big footsteps."

Hardcastle seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "You work for me. But we're . . . friends?"

The answer came without hesitation. "The best."

The judge studied the young man for several long seconds. He never did seem convinced, but he finally nodded silently and returned his attention to his meal.

And, feeling that he had managed to survive the first round, McCormick did the same.

00000

Lunch had been awkward, but sitting in the den afterward had quickly proven unbearable, and it hadn't taken long for Hardcastle to put an end to the misery. "I'd really like to be alone," he said with a pointed look across the room.

McCormick wanted to object, though he wasn't sure which of them he was actually trying to spare the solitude. But the judge's expression forbade any dissension, so he gave in as gracefully as possible. "Okay, I'll go." He grabbed his textbooks from the end table and started up the steps. He reached the door then turned back to face Hardcastle. "But, Judge?" He waited for the inquiring eyebrow, then offered a tiny smile. "I won't stay gone." Without further comment, he disappeared out the door.

00000

McCormick tried to focus his eyes, and his attention. His brain was swimming: types of ownership, relationships between landlords and tenants, easements, trusts. Until a couple of days ago, the information had seemed cumbersome, and maybe a little puzzling from time to time, but not insurmountable. But now . . .

He continued to stare at the page, but all he saw was the lined face of Milton Hardcastle. And, unless he concentrated very hard, he heard the dreaded words, _Don't pretend to know me. _

He shook his head, trying to get his mind back on property law. But every sentence about how real estate was impacted by rights of survivorship made him think of Nancy Hardcastle, and how the judge was grieving for her anew. And every word about preparing trusts to protect the real property interests of minors and adults who were perhaps incapacitated made him think of . . . He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "Stop it," he instructed harshly to the empty room. "He's _not_ incapacitated." He turned another page in the textbook, though he wouldn't risk any amount of money on the idea that he'd actually committed any of it to memory.

He continued that same pattern—staring at the printed words, trying uselessly to make them about studying instead of about Hardcastle, then turning to the next page—for at least two hours. He never succeeded in truly comprehending any of it, but he did get through several chapters before sheer mental exhaustion won out and he finally dozed off.

He awoke to . . . "Basketball?" He pulled a hand through his curly hair and let his mind wake up. Broad daylight, late afternoon, maybe very early evening. Basketball was possible, but not likely. _You don't know when he played back then_, he reminded himself, but he ignored the thought. Anyway, now that he was awake, the pounding didn't really sound like a game of hoops. After a quick stop in the bathroom, Mark pulled on his sneakers and went in search of the noise.

Hardcastle wasn't outside on the court, so he continued across the property. Not by the pool, either. But the sounds grew louder as he approached the front of the house, and as he rounded the corner, Mark stopped short, staring in disbelief. He had been prepared for many things, but Milton Hardcastle on a ladder, wrestling a strand of Christmas lights, had not been high on the list of possibilities. "Ah . . . Judge?" He closed the remaining distance hesitantly. "What're ya doing?"

Hardcastle looked down at the younger man with a glare so familiar it was almost painful. "Whattaya think—" but he broke off before he finished the growl, and McCormick had never wished so desperately to be yelled at.

"It's Christmas," Hardcastle said in a more subdued tone, trying to smile. "Nancy always likes to put up the lights." He saw the slight frown on McCormick's face, thought about what he'd said, and forced himself to make the correction. "Liked. Nancy always _liked_ to put up the lights."

McCormick resisted the impulse to tell the judge that he'd never even known a strand of Christmas lights existed at Gull's Way. If Hardcastle wanted decorations, there would be decorations. "Well, okay. But come down from there and let me do that."

Hardcastle waved a hand in his direction, dismissing the idea, and turned back to the eave, hammering in a couple of hooks for the next section of lights.

"Judge, I'm serious. This is the kind of stuff you keep me around for. Let me help you."

"I've been putting up holiday lights since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, kid, so I certainly don't need you buttin' in now."

Mark bit back a response. _So close_, he thought. _So close to normal._ Except for the cold sting of the words. _Real this time. _He took a step back. "Is there anything I can do?"

Hardcastle glanced back behind him, his eyes showing that he clearly intended to dismiss the young man once and for all. But he stopped before he had uttered the first word, and thought for a moment. What he finally said was, "Why don't you be in charge of the meals? It'll be time for dinner when I finish here."

McCormick considered his options, decided there really weren't all that many, and nodded. "Whatever you say, Judge," he said quietly, then left the man alone, stringing lights in honor of his dead wife.

00000

They were on the patio, sharing another strained meal. Mark had grilled while Hardcastle finished the decorating, and the judge had been surprised when the steak and potato were cooked precisely to his satisfaction, and the beer on the table was in the bottle rather than a glass, just the way he preferred. McCormick had wanted to grab the other man and shake some sense into him, but he'd settled for muttering, "You learn a lot in three years," which he thought had come out more aggravated than he'd intended. This home sweet home routine might save Hardcastle from commitment, but he was beginning to have serious doubts about himself.

"Can I ask you something, Mark?"

The hesitant question interrupted McCormick's intense study of the slab of meat on his plate, and he decided he was going to have to tell Harper to have the judge back off this "nice" routine just a bit. "Of course." _Everybody on their best behavior._

"Sarah, my housekeeper. What happened to her? Her room looks like it's been empty for a long time. Is she . . .?" Hardcastle trailed off, unwilling to actually ask the question.

"She's fine," McCormick answered quickly, flashing a genuine smile. "She retired a couple of years ago, moved up to San Francisco to be closer to her family."

Hardcastle appeared relieved. "Thank God." He looked across the table speculatively, then continued, "Did you know her?"

"Sarah? Sure. She was here for a while after I moved in. She's a great lady."

"Yeah." Hardcastle took a long swallow from his bottle, observing the younger man.

For his part, McCormick was just relieved to have stumbled across one tiny piece of common ground, even if it was only a mutual affection for Sarah Wicks.

"What did you do before you came to work for me?"

_Round_ _two_. "Drove race cars, mostly."

The judge hitched up an eyebrow. "Really? That's quite a career change." He didn't ask the question, but McCormick could hear the "why?" behind every word.

"Things change, Judge," Mark answered with a small shrug. "You needed someone to ride shotgun and I needed someone to help me get the guys who killed my friend. We joined forces, and we've been together since." _Tell him the whole truth._

But he couldn't do it. Somehow, McCormick was convinced that he was walking too close to the edge with Hardcastle as it was. To confess now to being an ex-con paroled into the judge's custody would surely get him booted right off the estate. Or, at the very least, shut out of his life even more than he already was. No, he wanted Hardcastle to get to know him first, wanted to somehow prove himself before telling the whole truth.

The only problem with that was that never—not even in the earliest days—had he ever lied to Milton Hardcastle. And there was a part of him that wondered just what he hoped to prove by starting now.

Fifteen minutes later, McCormick was still just pushing his food around the plate, but Hardcastle seemed to have finally regained his appetite. Mark allowed himself a small smile; he was glad one of them was managing to adjust. He waited until the judge had almost finished his meal, then spoke up suddenly, keeping his tone conversational. "So what were you doing out and about Monday night, Judge?"

"I was—" Hardcastle stopped almost as quickly as he started.

For a fleeting moment, McCormick thought the judge was just being secretive, operating again on his rather unusual need-to-know basis, and relegating his forgotten sidekick to the 'no need' category. And, for that moment, he was too happy to even be angry. But then he saw the judge's features twist in uncertainty when the words wouldn't come.

Hardcastle spoke again, as if he could force the memory to reveal itself. "I was . . . " He appeared to think very hard. "_Dammit_. I was out, and . . . and I was . . . I was . . ." He shoved himself roughly away from the table and jumped to his feet.

"I don't know!" he shouted, glaring at McCormick. "Dammit, I just don't know. The last thing I remember was Monday afternoon, granting a continuance on the Hefflin manslaughter case, then working in my chambers for a while reviewing pending motions. After that, it's all a blank, but that's clear as day." He took a breath, trying to bring himself under control. "But you're telling me that afternoon wasn't day before yesterday, but _fifteen_ _years_ ago. You're telling me that somewhere between the last clear memory I have and waking up in the hospital Monday night, my life has changed. That my family is dead, that I've retired from an actual job in the judicial system to go on some kind of wild justice crusade, and that somewhere along the way, you and I met and became such fast friends that I put you on the payroll and let you live in my gatehouse." He was close to shouting again as he placed his palms on the tabletop and leaned across at McCormick. "Does that about sum it up?"

McCormick swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away. God knows, the anger was nothing unusual. And, he could even deal with the sort of cool indifference Hardcastle seemed to hold for him these days—as long as he kept believing it was temporary. But, the fear and confusion that haunted those steely blue eyes, that was the hard part. If he couldn't fix this, if things never got better, that was the part that might ultimately do him in.

_But not tonight._

McCormick rose slowly from his chair and leaned his own palms on the table, meeting the tortured gaze. "Yeah, Hardcase," he said evenly, "I think that about sums it up. Sorta sucks, doesn't it? But it's what we're dealing with, and we've dealt with worse. Honestly, Judge, I would do just about anything if I could give you back your family, but I can't do that. But I _am_ gonna get you back those fifteen years. There's gotta be a way, and we're gonna find it. That's what we do, you and me; we find things. Fix things. Make things right. We're gonna make this right, too. Count on it."

Long seconds passed as Hardcastle continued to stare across the table, but finally the tension began to leave his body, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "That's a pretty noble speech there, kid. Do you leave behind a silver bullet when you go?"

And then McCormick laughed. "Nah, that's your bit. But Tonto is always along for the ride."

00000

McCormick snatched up the desk phone after the first ring. He was back to studying again, and though he was making more progress this time around, he was still grateful for the interruption. "Hello?"

"Mark? It's Frank. How's it going? I called the house, but Milt said you'd already turned in for the evening. It's not even ten o'clock yet, so what's wrong?"

McCormick smiled slightly at the phone. "I guess things are okay, Frank. But he threw me out right after the basketball game."

"Threw you out?" Harper asked, alarmed. "What happened?"

"Well, maybe not exactly threw me out, but he did say he wanted to be alone. Second time today he's done that, but I'm trying to give him his space. I don't really know what else to do."

"You guys are getting along okay, though?"

McCormick hesitated. "I'm not sure you'd call it getting along, but he is at least tolerating me." Then he continued in a lighter tone, "I'm not sure he was too happy about losing twenty bucks to me tonight, though. He said he'd been watching basketball since I was . . . what was it? . . . oh, yeah; a gleam in my daddy's eyes. Said I got lucky."

Harper chuckled. "Do you think you have an unfair advantage here, Mark? He doesn't know what a shark you are."

"Well, not so much that," the young man began with a slightly guilty laugh, "but he did ask me why the Cavs were playing an ABA team. But, hey, I brought him up to speed on the league, and I gave him all the lowdown on the teams. I told him they couldn't beat the spread, but he wouldn't listen. I warned him."

Grinning, and feeling more relaxed, McCormick went on, "Okay, Frank, I'm sure you didn't call to talk about basketball. What do you want to ask me?"

Harper didn't change his tone. "Any change?"

"Not really," McCormick admitted, trying to hide his disappointment. "I tried asking him about Monday, but he didn't remember anything. He asked a few questions of his own, but nothing seemed to ring any bells." He sighed. "I don't know, Frank. It's like he's trying to make himself believe what's happening, but he doesn't. Not really."

"What'd he say when you told him how you two met?"

Harper waited at least thirty seconds before deciding he wasn't going to get an answer. "Mark?"

"I haven't told him."

The response was so softly spoken, Harper wasn't sure he'd heard it correctly. "What?"

McCormick raised his voice, though he suddenly sounded very tired. "I said I haven't told him, Frank."

"Why the hell not?" Harper barked in exasperation.

"I couldn't," Mark answered, clutching the phone tightly to his head. "Frank, I don't think he needs to know that right now. Jeez, he's barely putting up with me as it is; he finds out I'm a convicted felon, and he'll throw my ass out on the street."

"He wouldn't do that," the lieutenant objected quietly.

"Easy for you to say," McCormick countered, "he still _likes_ you. If he knew he was the one who sent me up, he'd probably think I was out to kill him, or something." He breathed deeply. "I just can't tell him yet, Frank. You understand, right?"

"I understand, Mark," Harper said slowly, "but you have to do it. How's he gonna trust you if you start lying to him?"

"I haven't lied," the young man replied defensively, "I just . . ." he trailed off, considering the situation.

"You want me to tell him?" Harper asked into the silence.

"No!" McCormick lowered his voice. "Sorry. But, no. I'll tell him, I really will, but I don't think I can do it just yet. Give me some time, Frank, okay? Let him get to know me first. I mean the _now_ me, not the me from his files. He— " He broke off suddenly, as he was struck with a terrifying thought. "Oh, God, Frank, the files. What if he finds my file? What am I gonna do?"

"I'd suggest telling him the truth."

"You don't understand." Mark's voice was tinged with despair. "I'm barely holding this together, Frank. You saw the way he was with me. But we had an okay dinner, and then we watched some footballbasketball. It wasn't exactly normal, but it wasn't bad. The judge is a good guy, and he knows people; he'll warm up to me pretty soon. I think I just need a couple of days. Okay?" McCormick held his breath, waiting for a response.

"You don't need my permission, Mark," Harper said gently. He spoke earnestly to his frightened young friend. "You know, there aren't too many people I would leave him with in these circumstances, but I know you'd never hurt him. What I'm more concerned about right now is whether you'd do something to hurt yourself. Mark, I know you're worried about this, but I'm gonna ask you to trust me. Milt will understand, but you have got to give him the chance to accept you. You're worried about him shutting you out, but what are you doing to him?"

The line was silent for a long moment while McCormick considered his options. "I hear you, Frank," he finally said, "and I appreciate your concern. I'll tell him soon—maybe tomorrow, if everything goes okay—but not tonight. It's been kind of a long day, and I just can't face it tonight."

"Okay," Frank answered sympathetically, "I understand. But not too long, Mark; it'll only get harder." He let a beat pass, then said, "I thought he sounded okay on the phone. Not great, but okay. But you wanna know what he said about you?"

"What?" McCormick cried. He made a face, even though Harper wasn't there to appreciate it. "Hell, yeah, I wanna know!"

The detective chuckled slightly. "He said he was beginning to think he might be sorry to forget you." He didn't wait for the shocked silence to wear off before he hung up the phone.

00000

McCormick trudged across the darkened lawn, telling himself he just wanted some ice cream. After Harper's call, he'd really buckled down to the studying, but after several hours of deeds and property lines, he deserved a break.

_Hah! Usually take your lock picks when you raid the kitchen?_

He continued toward the main house, ignoring the voice in his head. Sometimes he really annoyed himself.

00000

Now in the darkened room, lit only by the thin tunnel of light given off by the penlight he'd brought along, McCormick hesitated. Sitting behind the oak desk, burglar tools in hand, he was one click away from opening the bottom file drawer and ensuring that Hardcastle wouldn't stumble across his secret. But, damn. Lying to him and stealing from him all in one day? That was quite the welcome home package.

_It's not stealing; it's borrowing. And I haven't lied._

_Think ol' hunt 'em, hear 'em and hang 'em would see it that way?_

_I think he needs me, whether he knows it or not. This is for his own good._ He leaned forward and put the pick in the lock.

_Whose own good?_

_His_, he thought furiously. _He can't go around jumping to conclusions because of my past. I'm a changed man, reformed, rehabilitated— _

_You're stealing to cover up a lie._

Slowly, McCormick pulled back on the pick and sank back into the chair. "Okay," he said under his breath. "Dammit." He was slipping the pick back into its case when the overhead light illuminated the room.

"Looking for this?" Hardcastle asked from the doorway, holding up a tattered manila folder.

Staring, frozen in the seat, McCormick could think of nothing except the truth. "I didn't want you to find it."

"You're an ex-con," the judge continued, stepping down into the room. His slow, deliberate words weren't really disguising his anger.

McCormick nodded wordlessly.

"I sentenced you?" He received another nod as he approached the desk. "And then you were paroled into my custody?"

"Yeah." McCormick could barely force out the word.

"But your parole ended and you're still here?" Hardcastle dropped the file on the desk and looked sternly across at the other man, who was back to simply nodding. He indicated the tool case in McCormick's hand. "You know how to use those things?"

He swallowed hard, but McCormick stuck to the truth. "Yes."

"You ever steal from me before?"

"No," Mark answered, quietly but firmly. "And for what it's worth, I wasn't gonna tonight, either."

"So it seemed," the judge replied, causing McCormick to wonder just how long the man had been watching from the shadows. "What made you change your mind?"

McCormick finally dropped his gaze. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Hardcastle instructed in his most judicial tone.

With a shrug, and still not looking at the judge, McCormick answered, "I wanted you to get to know me before you found out about me. But I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to convince you I could be trusted if I started out with a lie."

"And the me you know trusts you?"

Finally, Mark allowed his eyes to meet Hardcastle's. "Absolutely."

"And we're friends?"

"Yes."

The judge looked between McCormick and the file on his desk. "That seems . . . unlikely." His tone wasn't unkind, just candid.

"_Unlikely?_ Damn straight it's unlikely. You and me, Hardcase, we're like the original odd couple. But it works. God only knows how, but it does." McCormick sighed, and looked down at the case in his hands. Zipping it closed, he slipped it as discreetly as possible into his pocket as he rose from his chair. "But maybe it worked because I tried hard to overcome some of my natural tendencies." He started across the floor, not entirely sure Hardcastle would allow him to leave, certainly not with criminal tools in his possession.

"Wait a minute."

The words stopped him in the doorway. _Here it comes._ He turned to find the judge staring at him, his expression a strange combination of confusion and bitterness, as if he would never be able to reconcile all the information he had learned today, even if he wanted to. But after a moment, it became clear that no further objection was forthcoming. McCormick offered a final comment.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything from the beginning, Judge. But as _unlikely_ as this situation seems, we really did make it work." He paused briefly. "But you had to overcome some of your natural tendencies, too." And he slipped out of the house and back into the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Falling off the couch and smacking his head on the coffee table was not the way McCormick wanted to start the day. Adding another insult was the heavy medical book that followed, landing on his shoulder as he lay on the floor. Groaning and searching the gatehouse wall for the clock, he realized that the sun wasn't even quite peeking over the horizon yet. The only real light in the room was from the lamp still burning from the night before.

"6:06," he mumbled sleepily.

Picking himself up off the floor, he stumbled towards the bathroom. Peering at his head in the mirror, he caught a look at his face. He looked terrible. He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, but didn't think he should look _that_ bad. While he was trying to decide what stage of bloodshot his eyes were, the last few days came back to him. Then the whole breaking and entering scene from the night before flashed through his head, and he thought he was going to be sick.

Without using the bathroom for any of its intended purposes, he wandered back into the main room and slumped back down on the couch. The events of the week again played out in his head. With each passing thought, he felt more and more despair.

_What the hell am I going to do? _No coherent thoughts were forthcoming. _I'm in over my head here. _Rolling his head across the back of the chair, he tried to work the kinks out.He started thinking about the day and the rest of the week ahead. _Should I even try to go to the library today? I can't leave him alone. _

He felt paralyzed and his body unwilling to move, questions and memories swirling through his brain. He couldn't sleep when he had gotten back from the main house the night before. He was hoping and even praying that Hardcastle would set his file to rest and try to stay in the present. _He has to stay in the present or go back fifteen years. What the hell is he going to do? _Attempts at reading the medical text he had taken from Hardcastle's library Tuesday, trying to find out more about all the possibilities of the judge's head injury and present condition, had proven futile. Thinking about the possibilities of what exactly Hardcastle was doing on Monday night was just frustrating. He had prayed silently for answers. He didn't remember when he finally passed out.

After a while, he realized that the light in the room was bright from the sunshine coming through the windows. He shook himself out of his reverie and knew he had to get going. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 6:25. A part of him waited for the thump of the basketball outside but part of him was relieved because he wasn't quite sure how to start a conversation this morning.

With determination, he pulled himself up and headed for the shower. He did remember his little speech last night and again promised himself that he was going to do everything in his power to find a way through this. For both of them.

Figuring that the judge had put him in charge of the meals, he headed over to the main house to make breakfast. As he neared the kitchen door, he saw the light on. His steps faltered a bit and he momentarily thought about heading back to the gatehouse, but continued on. Not thinking too clearly yet, and out of years of habit, he pushed open the door and entered the kitchen.

Looking startled, Hardcastle turned from the counter and barked, "Don't you even knock?"

Mark opened his mouth, but no words came out. The sinking feeling came back, replacing any positive thoughts he'd had earlier. The only sound for a few seconds was the radio, broadcasting the morning news.

Turning back to the coffee maker, Hardcastle said, "Well it's good to see that you're an early riser, at least."

McCormick ducked his head a bit and toyed with the idea of letting the judge believe that, but decided that enough lies had already been told.

"Well um, not exactly. Usually you're the one slamming a basketball on my bedroom wall to wake me up."

Pondering that, the judge turned to the younger man and said, "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure." Mark always thought the judge's coffee could make great driveway sealer, but he knew he needed something strong to jumpstart his morning. "What are you doing making breakfast? I thought I was in charge of the meals?"

"Well I didn't know what time you'd be up, and I was hungry."

Mark, feeling a bit more confident because the judge hadn't thrown him out of the house after his entrance, said, "Well, okay then, I'll get to work. 'Eggs ala McCormick' coming up."

"Eggs ala McCormick?"

"Yup, trust me, Judge, you'll like them." He almost choked on the words as soon as he'd said them. Trust was definitely an issue here.

Hardcastle was looking at Mark with an unreadable expression on his face. He said, "Okay, I've got to make a phone call. Let me know when they're ready." He shuffled off towards the den. His gait was slow and a bit stiff, the aftereffects of the accident still noticeable.

Mark opened his mouth to ask about the phone call but quickly closed it. Normally he would have just bluntly asked. _Normal. Just what the heck is normal around here?_

When breakfast was almost ready, he yelled into the den and received a grunt in reply.

00000

Eggs 'ala McCormick' were met with an approving nod after the first few bites.

"Not bad, Mark."

_That first name thing again._ He was going to either have to get used to it or figure out a way to change that.

"Thanks." The odd unfamiliarity was back. Surprisingly though, McCormick didn't feel the stifling tension of the day before.

"So, what's your school schedule like?" the judge asked.

"Um, well usually I have Property Law on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are Civil Procedure. But I have two final exams tomorrow then I'm done till January."

Hardcastle looked up from his breakfast and said "Usually?"

"Well, it's just study group today, so I figured I'd stay home today and see—" Mark started.

"I told you yesterday, I don't need looking after," the judge interrupted furiously.

"I am not looking after you!" Mark spouted back automatically. Thinking tohimself,_ Oh yes I am; somebody has to._

Both men had stopped eating and were looking intently at each other. A few moments of pained silence passed, neither knowing what to say. A jaunty Christmas song seemed to scream out of the radio, even though the volume wasn't set very high.

"Judge," McCormick took a deep breath and started, "somebody is supposed to be with you this week. Dr. Neely said…"

"Dr. Neely, my sweet aunt! I don't care what anybody says! Just because I can't remember, doesn't mean I need some kind of wet nurse!" Hardcastle attacked his plate with a vengeance, better to eat than talk.

Sitting back and dropping his hands in his lap, Mark desperately tried to maintain his composure. He stared at his plate, the thought of food again making him nauseous. _Well, _Mark thought,_ at_ _least he didn't stomp off or flatten me_. But the anger was unnerving, and knowing it was a natural reaction didn't help.

A ring of the doorbell ended their silence. They heard the sound of the door opening, and footsteps coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Frank entered the room with a cordial, "Good morning, thought I'd stop in before…" his voice dropped off with each word. McCormick's downcast face and Hardcastle's rigid posture were a dead giveaway that something was going on.

"Okay, guys, what's up?" he got straight to the point. He had hoped that by this morning things would be a little smoother for the two of them.

Grateful for the interruption, Hardcastle's eyes softened a bit at the sight of his friend. "We, um, were just having breakfast."

"No dice, Milt. Spill it." The detective in Frank kicked in, and he was determined to find out the problem.

"Well if you really have to know, Junior over here doesn't think I can take care of myself, even though apparently I've been doing it a lot longer than I thought."

Still sitting quietly, Mark thought, _Junior is a step up._ He looked helplessly at Frank.

Looking at McCormick, he asked, "Mark?"

"I just was following what Dr. Neely said about sticking around." He got up, taking his plate with his uneaten breakfast, and walked toward the sink. "Want some coffee?"

"Who made it?" asked Frank, sitting down.

"I did. Why?" responded the judge.

Inwardly, Frank grimaced. "Just asking. Yeah, I'll have one." He secretly told his stomach to hang on. The judge eyed him curiously.

Seeing the judge had simmered down a bit and setting a fresh cup down, Mark went back to the sink and changed the subject. "Frank, I never asked, where's the truck?"

"That's what I'd like to know, too!" fumed Hardcastle. Glancing at McCormick, he continued, "I already called about the truck; that's what I was doing on the phone. I can't believe that nobody can find a 1958, tan, GMC truck. It's ridiculous!" The judge was also upset at the fact that he didn't recognize any of the people he had talked to on the phone.

Mark and Frank's eyes met and Frank waved his hand at McCormick seeming to say, _This one's yours._

Rinsing one of the plates he was washing and clearing a catch in his throat, Mark said, "Um, Judge, that's because you weren't driving a tan, 1958 GMC. You were driving a black, 1984 GMC truck. The old truck was retired a couple of years ago."

A vacant look came over the judge's face again. He shook his head, got up from the table and walked over to the window. Another piece of the puzzle gone.

After a brief silence, he sighed, "Well, I guess I may owe a couple of people at the station an apology then."

"Milt, don't worry about it," Frank said. "I know where it was towed and we can go over there when you're up to it. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here."

Turning, the judge looked at him questioningly.

"Well, your insurance adjuster is looking at it today and I don't want the truck towed till you can look through it. I was hoping that we might find something that will give us a clue as to what you were doing alone down there Monday night. It was taken to the police impound lot after the accident and they're keeping an eye on it. But I need your signature on this to leave it there a few more days," Frank said as he placed a piece of paper on the table.

Mark heard a slight emphasis on the word 'alone' and thought, _Yeah, I damn well want to know, too_. He held his tongue.

"Mark, I figured I'd run Milt down there while you're in class and you could pick him up down at the office when you're done."

"I can go down there today and drive myself back here, ya know!" muttered the judge.

"Sorry, Milt, no can do. Besides the fact that the truck isn't drivable, I'm with Mark on this one; what Dr. Neely said goes. You aren't going anywhere until after your next appointment with him." He continued firmly but compassionately, "You know he still has the commitment papers."

With that the judge stopped dead in his tracks. "Frank, at least I thought that you—," he faltered. He shook his head and stormed out of the room.

Exhaling the breath he'd been holding, McCormick slowly made his way back to the table and sat down. "What are we going to do, Frank?"

"I already told you what we're going to do," he replied. "You're going to go to school and study."

"But—"

"No 'buts' about this, Mark, you need to get through your exams and we'll go from there. We take this one step at a time. When Milt comes out of this and finds out you were that close but quit because of what's happening right now, he'll kill you." Frank continued a little more gently, "Look, I'd tell you not to worry, but that won't help. We will work through this and find out what's going on."

Grateful for the compassion and confidence, Mark grinned at Frank. "He _would_ kill me, too."

Smiling back, Frank rose from the table and headed for the den. "Well I hope he doesn't kill me right now."

"Frank, wait," said Mark, stopping Harper at the door. "There was a file in the judge's desk. I don't know if he's looked at it but it was there when I had gotten back from the hospital Monday night— well, I guess Tuesday morning. It's in the locked bottom right-hand drawer." Frank raised an eyebrow. Mark continued, "No, I don't have a key and, no, Hardcastle doesn't know _I_ know about it— hell, he probably doesn't either." Frank's eyebrow came down.

"The file only has a couple of things in it, and I wrote them down for myself, too. A guy's name, 'Henry', the word Glendale, and the number S1712. There's some notes, but none of it makes any sense to me."

"There's nothing you two were working on?" Frank asked again, even though Mark had already denied it.

"No!" Mark said emphatically, toying with the placemat before him. "We've slowed way down since I started school. I should have known something was up. Dammit! I should have paid more attention to what he was doing Monday night."

Frank crossed through the room and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "This is _not_ your fault."

McCormick looked up at his friend, pure misery written across his face. "What if we don't figure this out? What are we going to do?"

Gripping his shoulder a bit tighter, Frank forced himself to be positive. "For the third time, right now you are going to study." Mentally bracing himself, he went on, "I'm going to talk to Milt."

"Okay," Mark swallowed what was left of his concern. "I can meet you guys by, say two?"

00000

A few minutes later, Frank walked into the den. He stopped on the landing. Hardcastle was looking out the window. Without turning, the judge said softly, "Sorry, Frank, guess I'm having a little problem with all of this. Didn't mean to snap at you."

"No need to apologize. I'd be having a _big _problem with all of this." He went on cautiously, "But seriously, Milt, until we figure out what's going on with you, and as much as you hate the idea, one of us is going to be hanging around."

Still looking out the window, the judge exclaimed, "What the hell is that!"

Rushing to the window and peering over Hardcastle's shoulder, Frank started laughing, seeing the Coyote heading down the driveway.

"That's the kid's car."

"His _car?_" Hardcastle looked at the vanishing taillights in disbelief.

Still chuckling and moving towards the desk, Frank said, "We can talk about it later; it's a long story." He figured the jig was up and if Mark didn't tell the judge, he'd have to. He thought, _That's what the kid gets for procrastinating_.

"I'll bet it is." Hardcastle then said abruptly, "I found the kid's file."

Inwardly, Frank groaned. "Did you talk to Mark about it?"

"A little. Last night. He was in here trying to steal it out of my desk, but I already had it."

Whirling around, Frank looked at Milt. He had just listened to Mark's kitchen confession about actually breaking into the drawer for the other files, but no mention of this. He didn't need any more surprises.

"No," Hardcastle said slowly, "he didn't go through with it. I was watching and he stopped himself. He didn't know I was here. Guess there's something I should give him credit for."

Releasing the tension from his shoulders, Frank sat down on the edge of the desk.

"You should, Milt. He's a good kid, smart. Still makes dumb mistakes every once in a while, but he's come a long way since you first brought him here. He's also put his neck on the line for you more times than I can count— whether you've wanted him to or not."

"But who _is_ he, Frank?" the judge asked. "I don't know anything about him."

"I guess I can make my story longer. Right now we've got some business."

"Business?" the judge asked guardedly.

"Yeah, Mark said you two weren't working on any new cases. We need to look through your desk and see if we come up with anything." Frank was treading lightly, not wanting to give up Mark's admitted little foray into the judge's personal papers. He also thought to himself, _I should have started a list a long time ago for the ones McCormick owes me_.

Looking thoughtful, Hardcastle moved over and sat behind the desk. "Well, other than McCormick's file, there were a couple of my old cases." With a twinge in his voice he said, "Ones I don't even remember. This one doesn't have a lot in it," he said, handing over a folder. "Must have been in a hurry; I can't even read some it. Just a name, couple of notes, and a number. I haven't asked McCormick about it yet. If we're some sort of civilian crime fighters, he may know something."

With a slight grin Frank said, "More like the Lone Ranger and Tonto."

Hardcastle gave him a sharp look but Frank was already poring over what little there was in the file. "Not much here. Well, we can try and run the number down at the station." He looked up to see Hardcastle rubbing his temple. "You okay?" he asked, concerned. "You think maybe you're up to running over to that impound with me, a little later, to take a look at your truck?"

"Hell, yes," the judge replied gruffly. "I'm all right, just a little tired. Didn't sleep too well last night. Too much to think about I guess." He paused, then added, "Mark doesn't look too good, either."

Pursing his lips together, Frank said, "Well he's got a lot on his plate, too. He's worried sick about you, and he's got finals for school right now. You both need a couple days to take it easy."

"Hrmph, I just don't get the whole idea of what he's doing here," answered the judge quietly.

"Not too many people do, Milt, not too many people do." Rising from his perch on the desk, Frank got up and looked at the judge. "Come on, I'll let you buy me another cup of your lousy coffee."

Hardcastle rose carefully and said, "_Lousy coffee?_ I don't make lousy coffee…."

00000

Not bothered by the chilly December air, Mark drove with the tops out and windows down. He needed some air. Looking at the usually beautiful scenery had just depressed him. Holiday decorations seemed so out of place to him this morning, and they were everywhere. Thinking back on the last few Christmases he had shared with the judge brought back a lot of memories. The first year when celebrating together was so awkward. The second, when things were a little better and the two of them had started some of their own traditions. Last year, although neither would probably admit it, they really had a lot of fun. Exchanging presents, arguing about the tree, each having some of their friends over for a holiday dinner. And then, out of nowhere, came the melancholy thoughts of what this year might bring.

The car's radio was on, and soon all of the ads for pre-Christmas sales and Christmas songs made him want to scream. Definitely not in the mood for all that happiness. Pushing a cassette into the player, the rock band, Kansas, started cranking loud and clear. McCormick started singing along until he realized the words out of his mouth were '_carry on my wayward son'_. Punching it back out, he snapped off the radio. Frustrated and angry, his fist slammed down on the steering wheel. The rest of the trip to the campus was driven in somber silence.

Arriving on campus, he found his two usual parking spots filled. Glancing at the clock in the car, he saw it was even early.Figuring, _Why not? Everything else is going so well,_ he began looking for an alternative. There weren't too many places he'd park the Coyote. Finally finding a suitable spot, Mark got out, grabbed his backpack with his books, and started walking to the library. He knew he needed a couple hours of review before his exam the next day.

Ignorant of his surroundings, Mark walked along, passing the usual array of shops and fast food places that litter college campuses everywhere. Checking the street at a crosswalk, he stopped suddenly when something in a store window happened to catch his eye. Looking more closely, it was something he'd never imagined finding on campus or anywhere else actually. _Unbelievable._ But was it real? He turned abruptly and entered the store, surprised it was open this early.

The guy behind the counter looked like he'd been left behind from a Grateful Dead tour a few summers ago and was snoring, sleeping peacefully. Mark walked right by him and headed over to the window. He had to pick his way around everything from used furniture and clothing to a row of old books and even a pool table. Setting his books down, he picked the picture off its hanger and gave it his full attention. He stared, almost in awe. The white stallion pawing his hooves into the air, the unmistakable figure with the white hat and black mask sitting tall in the saddle. In scripted letters near the bottom were the words. Remembering, he had seen them before in one of Hardcastle's favorite old comic books. Mark started reading them again unaware he was saying them softly out loud.

Looking the whole picture over again he decided it was the perfect gift for the judge. He hadn't bought anything for him yet. He was having a hard time this year coming up with an idea. Usually it was pretty easy to buy for Hardcastle, but this year Mark had wanted something special. He had wanted to show the judge how grateful he was for the chance at law school. Schooling Mark never could have afforded. The judge would always blow him off about the tuition and he knew he could never repay him, well, not with money anyway. McCormick turned over the price tag and swallowed, ninety-five dollars.

His shoulders slumped a bit. That was a lot of money, and he didn't even know if it was an authentic autograph. Still carrying the picture and zigzagging his way back to the front counter, he woke up 'Sleepy,' the clerk.

"Huh? Whadda ya want?" Stretching, yawning and scratching the back of his head, the man slowly came to life.

"This picture, is it authentic?" Mark asked holding it out toward the man.

"The Lone Ranger one?" said the clerk, squinting and trying to focus.

"No, this one of Superman," McCormick replied, irritated.

"Well that's not Superman, it's the Lone Ranger, and yeah, it's authentic." The guy was waking up more. "It was my dad's. He kicked off last year. Didn't know what to do with that so I had it checked out and found out it was a real autograph. I even got the picture around here somewhere showing that dude signing it for my dad. He was a real rah-rah guy for crap like that. You know, for God, for country. I think he wished he could have either been him or John Wayne or something."

"How much do you want for it?" McCormick asked, hoping the guy wasn't awake enough to read the price tag.

"What's the tag say?" Sleepy, now the wide-awake clerk, had perked up with the hopes of making a good sale.

"Ninety-five." He replied.

"Well then, that's what it costs."

"You're sure it's a real autograph?" Mark asked again.

"Told ya, I got a picture." The guy started rummaging around. "I'd even throw that in for free."

"Swell." He looked at it again, torn. The frame was in great shape and the glass was clear and clean. But it was the words still rambling around in his head that kept the picture in his hands. They were so dear and true to his best friend. A best friend he didn't know how to help or comfort right now.

"Here's the picture," said the clerk, handing over an old black and white photograph. In it were two semi-fuzzy figures. The same white hat, and black mask looking down at a relatively young man, who was looking up in awe. Moore was writing on the picture and it was hard for McCormick to see if it was the same one.

One last glance at the picture he was holding and he knew he would be making this guy happy. He realized it was a lot of money, probably more than it was really worth. The set of tires for the Coyote would have to wait a little longer. He had to have it.

"Okay, I'll take it," he said, "but I don't have the money on me right now. Can you hold it till tomorrow? I'll get it to you then."

Sleepy seemed disappointed and looked at McCormick closely, his hopes for immediate cash dashed. "Yeah, but only till tomorrow night; after that it goes back up in the window."

He placed it on the counter and gave the guy his name and number. He walked out of the store and the rest of the way to the library with a little lighter step.

000000

"The Lone Ranger," Hardcastle muttered quietly, as they drove cross-town toward Glendale. Frank kept his mouth shut on that subject. It seemed like everything he'd said since they'd gotten in the car had only annoyed his friend. "And a car thief for Tonto," he added, with no effort to hide his chagrin. "What the hell was I thinking, Frank?"

Frank kept his eyes on the road. Now that it had come to a direct question, he supposed he'd have to respond. "You were thinking about doing some good."

"For who? That kid?"

"Yeah, for him." Frank shrugged, "For you, too. And, hell, you two racked up a lot of busts the last few years. You brought in a lot of bad guys." Frank spared a glance from the road. The man sitting next to him still wore a look of disbelief. "You got Joe Cadillac to turn himself in, testify against some of his old buddies."

"_Cadillac_?" Hardcastle's disbelief seemed to deepen. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Well, you and Mark . . ." Frank suddenly felt a little less comfortable with his prime example. _So this is why the kid was lying_. He shoved his qualms over to the side. _No more of that. _"Got some evidence out of impound—papers Cadillac needed to ransom his son."

"Cadillac has a kid now?"

"He had one all along," Frank explained. "His son's a priest."

"No kidding," Hardcastle shook his head once then, abruptly, he frowned. "What do you mean 'got it out of impound'?"

Frank sighed, briefly regretting all his admonitions to Mark, but still determined to follow his own advice. "You and Mark broke into impound, when it looked like the ransom deadline was gonna beat the evidentiary ruling. You took the papers—"

"I . . . _he_ . . ." the judge grasped for words.

"It was _your_ idea," Frank said quietly. "Mark just provided the expertise."

Disbelief was hardening into absolute horror. "Then how come he's not— _we're_ not—in prison?"

"You got off on a technicality," Frank replied, with just a twinge of satisfaction. "Then," he plunged ahead on the crest of the shock value, "there was a mobster on the East Coast, guy named Tommy Sales. You two took him down."

"How?" Hardcastle asked, almost hesitantly.

"You broke into a _Federal_ judge's chambers, popped a safe, took some tapes."

"He cracks safes, too?"

"Well, not _that_ time," Frank admitted. "That was his dad, but it was _your_ idea. Sales had Mark. You got the tapes to trade for him. You told me all about it over a couple of beers one time, called it 'flagrant necessity'. Then you got the whole bunch busted when they showed up for the trade."

"'Flagrant necessity? A _judge's_ chambers?" Hardcastle repeated the words, almost to himself. He shook his head, then slowly turned toward Frank. "We do this kind of thing a lot?"

"Not without a good reason," Frank offered reassurance. "But I just thought you should know; he's been damn useful to you."

"And the ends justify the means?" Hardcastle gave him a hard look. "Is that what you're saying?"

"_Some_ ends," Frank said, carefully, "and _some_ means."

"You start breaking the law," Hardcastle replied brittlely, "and pretty soon you've got anarchy."

"I once heard a guy say, 'The people's good is the highest law.'" Frank said, glancing aside at the older man for a moment. Then he added, "That was you—the first time I ever testified on a case in your courtroom."

There was a long, silent moment. "That wasn't me," the judge finally said quietly. "That was Cicero."

"Yeah, well," Frank smiled, "I was just a rookie cop. I thought it was Hardcastle."

He pulled in at the gate of the private towing and impound facility, honked his horn once, and flashed his badge at the attendant.

"I called Glendale Traffic Division this morning. They said it wasn't drivable, got towed here." Frank stuck his head out the window. "Black and gray GMC truck brought in Saturday Tuesday morning?" He held out a copy of the accident report. The attendant waved him vaguely toward the back.

As Frank pulled up in the aisle next to the truck, he realized that the judge was staring past him at the vehicle. From the back, the damage didn't appear too severe; it was the truck itself that seemed to have the man flummoxed.

"_That's_ mine?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

"Yeah, you've had it, what, about three years now."

"Frank," the older man frowned, "don'tcha think it's kinda _flashy_? What was wrong with my old one?"

"You burned the engine out," Frank smiled.

"_Nah_ . . . I always took good care of it. Oil changes every 2,500 miles and everything."

"No," Frank laughed, "I mean you _burned_ the engine out, as in incinerated. Up in flames."

Hardcastle's frown deepened. "And I got _this_?" He walked over to the driver's side, winced a little at the spider crack on the window, and then looked inside. "It's got a lot of bells and whistles."

Frank bit down on another laugh. "Well, I think Mark convinced you it would improve the resale value if you got air-conditioning and a tape deck."

The judge turned back to him, face stern. "It figures; he'd know about _that_. Blue book values are kinda his stock and trade."

Frank froze, half out of the car. For about the third time in the last half-hour, he was glad that the kid was at least ten miles away, and not around to hear all of this. "It wasn't like that." He sighed wearily. "I know he made a big mistake last night, but . . . honest, Milt, I'm starting to wonder if he wasn't right about one thing."

Hardcastle straightened up and bristled. "Right about what?"

"About how you wouldn't trust him if you knew about his past, at least not yet. Even though you _did _trust him. God, I never knew two people who trusted each other more." Frank was out of the car, leaning the door closed, hands in his pockets. He studied his friend carefully, and then he shook his head again, looking down.

He gradually became aware of the silence, and lifted his head again. Hardcastle was staring at him. "But _why_?" the judge finally asked.

"I dunno," Frank said. "I won't lie to you; he screwed up a couple of times, back at the beginning—never the really important stuff, though—but you kept trusting him . . . and he was—he _is—_trustworthy."

The judge looked away for a moment, then back at Frank, his expression only slightly more conciliatory. "If you say so."

_I did my best,_ Frank thought. _It'll have to do for now._

The judge glanced back into the cab of the truck, seeming eager to move on to a new topic. He reached for the handle and opened the door. "There's something on the seat. A map." He reached for it then hesitated.

"Three days, half a dozen cops, and a handful of emergency workers. This no longer qualifies as a crime scene," Frank grimaced, looking over the judge's shoulder.

Hardcastle looked back at him thoughtfully. "You're not sure it _ever_ was."

Frank caught himself on the verge of another gently reassuring lie. He shut his mouth abruptly. Then, a second later, said, "If it makes you feel any better, _Mark_ thinks it is."

Hardcastle 'harrumphed' as he reached in and grabbed the map—Greater Los Angeles—folded open to the southern part of Glendale. "Where did the accident happen?" he asked.

"On Glendale Avenue." Frank pulled the police report out of his pocket. "The intersection of Glendale and San Fernando, where Glendale merges. You blew through the light."

The judge grimaced again. "So I've heard."

"You know," Frank looked at him abstractedly. "That's about 1900 South Glendale Avenue. Maybe that '1721' is an address." He took the map from the older man and studied it for a moment, then looked up, puzzled. "Wanna go check it out?"

"Why not?" the judge shrugged. Glancing back briefly into the truck, he turned away.

"Wait a sec," Frank reached past him, past the steering wheel, and to the glove compartment, snapping it open. "Well, this has gotta be a first. Nobody stole your gun."

Hardcastle flashed a brief smile of recognition. Frank tucked the gun and holster under his own arm and turned back to his car.

"_Frank_?" the judge asked.

The lieutenant looked back at him, eyebrows briefly up. Then he said, "Ohh . . . aw, come on, Milt. Dr. Neely'd kill me if I let you have this back right now."

He didn't add that Neely would have to get in line behind Mark. That was probably better left unsaid.

00000

The accident scene provided no useful insights. Hardcastle stared at it with no glimmer of recognition. There was no obvious sign that anything had happened there. The short trip up Glendale Avenue brought them to an impressive set of wrought iron gates, with the '1721' almost lost among the decorative filigree-work. But they hardly needed to look at the name emblazoned on the escutcheons mounted at the top.

"Forest Lawn?" Frank said, bemusedly. "Ring any bells?"

"Well, I've been here before. Funerals." The judge suddenly frowned. "Nancy?"

"No," Frank shook his head hurriedly. "She and Tom are over in Woodlawn." He glanced away just as suddenly, as a look of infinite sadness returned to the older man's face. "Sorry, I—"

"_Anyway_," the judge exhaled, "it would have been locked up tight at that hour of the night. Why come here at one in the morning?"

Frank didn't want to go in the direction of midnight forays into cemeteries and mausoleums. There'd been a couple of those. Fortunately, the judge seemed not to be pursuing that line of questioning. He was just standing there, staring past the open gates, into the cemetery beyond.

Frank gave him room to think, standing back a bit. After a few moments, he heard the older man say, almost to himself, "Lots of others, probably." He was looking down, now, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Frank understood. "Well . . . yes. Fifteen years," he said flatly.

"Who?"

"Ahh, Tyler Peebles, that was a couple years back. And Charles Clarkson—"

"Old Charlie? I would've gone to his funeral."

"You did," Frank smiled. "And then you investigated his murder." He paused for a moment, and he added, "We almost lost Mark on that one."

The judge gave him a questioning glance.

"Yeah, he was helping you investigate a crooked lawyer and his client. They were the ones who killed Charlie and his secretary. You got too close to the truth; they shot Mark."

The judge pursed his lips, considering.

"You never really explained to me how you figured out where they'd dumped him."

"Well," Hardcastle looked a little peeved, "don't ask me _now_." He took one last look around and then headed back to Frank's car.

00000

Frank drove them to the station, by way of a hot dog place that had been one of their longstanding favorites. The familiarity only seemed to ease the tension a little. The pall that had settled over the judge in front of the cemetery still lingered.

Frank checked his watch as they entered the building. "Mark should be here any minute. He said he'd be done by two."

Hardcastle merely nodded once, no other comment. He started to turn the wrong way down the second floor corridor and was snagged gently by the lieutenant and steered to the right.

"New office," Frank said with a smile. "Down here. Bigger, but not much. Here." He stopped in front of the door, reaching for the knob.

"Bathroom's still in the same place, isn't it?" Hardcastle said.

"Yeah," Frank replied, a little hesitantly.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Frank, I can do _that_ by myself," the judge groused.

"Okay," Frank frowned. "Meet me back here." He watched the older man stroll down the corridor, looking completely at home.

He fought down the last minute urge to say he, too, needed to use the facility. This not-lying thing was proving trickier than he could have imagined. Instead, he stepped into his office and carefully closed the door behind him, taking a seat at his desk and eyeing the growing backlog of paperwork with a weary eye.

He was not more than two layers down when he heard a sharp, quick tap on the door, followed, without a pause, by Mark's entry.

"Hey, Frank." The kid seemed remarkably more upbeat than he'd been that morning. Then he glanced around quickly. "Where's the judge?"

"Men's room," Frank gestured vaguely toward the hall.

"Oh . . . okay," Mark looked over his shoulder as he took a seat. "It's where it's always been, isn't it?"

"Since they built the place," Frank replied dryly.

"So, umm, how'd it go? Find anything?"

"A cemetery," Frank replied glumly. "Forest Lawn. That's what's at the address that was in his notes."

Mark wore a puzzled expression. "Anything else?'

"Nope, we struck out. And he hasn't remembered anything, either."

"The truck—?"

"You need to figure out who's going to do the repair work—"

"But it's—"

"There's a lot of front-end damage. I don't think you should leave it sitting in that impound much longer."

"But, Frank—" Mark began again, with mounting frustration.

"An accident. It looks like an accident. Unless you think the guy from the trucking company is lying—"

"That's a place to start."

"—and I already looked into him. Long-term employee of a legit company. Left on time to make his scheduled run on his scheduled route. Nothing unusual."

"Ah, any signs of sabotage?"

"You can take a look at it yourself, once you've got it towed. It needs a lot of body work, and I'm guessing the front axle's a goner. Just figure out where you want it and I can get things moving."

Mark looked over his shoulder again. "Well, you better ask _him_ about that."

"But you—"

"I cook, Frank," Mark said, resignedly, "and I stay out of the way."

"Well, yeah." Frank nodded. "I kinda get that."

Mark's eyebrows went up a little.

"_I_ spent the morning with the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle." Frank gave him a chagrined look.

"Yeah, but you said you've known him almost thirty years, Frank."

"Yeah, about," Frank replied. "But at first we were acquaintances, colleagues. We didn't get to be friends 'till later on." Frank looked at the younger man thoughtfully, "And I'd say we've been a whole lot closer since . . . since he retired." Frank shook his head. "I dunno, I guess I didn't realize how much he'd changed. He was a very tough judge, Mark."

"Oh," McCormick laughed. "You mean I didn't just get him on an off day?"

Frank smiled and shook his head. "And, anyway, cops like tough judges. So, maybe that's what I _used_ to like about him, back then. I dunno. I'd just forgotten what he was like."

Mark looked over his shoulder again. "The men's room?" he asked.

"Yeah, maybe five minutes before you showed up." Frank looked down at his watch, then up at Mark, a little more concerned.

"You think maybe you could go check on him, Frank?"

"Ah, yeah," Frank agreed reluctantly, but was already out of his seat. Mark followed along behind, and he looked like he thought this might be a dangerous mission to go point on.

Frank ducked his head in through the door, no one in the stalls—no one in the room at all. He ducked back out again, and his face gave the results away. "The first floor?" he suggested worriedly, but McCormick was already three steps ahead of him and heading for the stairwell.

He burst into the first-floor men's room with Frank on his heels. No one. They retreated back to the lobby.

"Where else?" Mark asked.

"You looking for the judge, Lieutenant?" the desk sergeant asked helpfully. "He walked by right before he came through." The sergeant pointed at McCormick. "Went out the front, hailed a cab."

"Frank," McCormick looked a little panicky. "He's got a twenty-minute head start."

"Listen," Harper put one hand out, taking Mark by the arm, "he probably just went back to the estate. It was a long morning."

"No, he would've waited for me."

Frank looked a little doubtful.

"It's someplace he doesn't think I'd take him, or that he doesn't want to go to _with_ me."

"Woodlawn Cemetery?" Frank asked.

McCormick gave that a moment's thought. "Maybe, but that's not _real_ to him, yet. Seeing it would make it real, I think he'll avoid that. No . . . the courthouse."

"I dunno," Frank mulled it. "We talked about Woodlawn."

"Okay, you take it; I'll take the courthouse." He was already heading for the front door.

00000

Mark took the courthouse steps two at a time, going against the tide of the afternoon departures. The deputy just inside the door was someone they knew. McCormick pulled up short.

"Seen Judge Hardcastle?" he asked, catching his breath.

The guard nodded, looking a little puzzled. _Perez,_ McCormick though, _That's his name, and he's too young to have been here fifteen years._

Perez pointed to the elevators and said, "Yeah, came through a little while ago. He usually says 'Hi.' What you guys in such a big hurry for today?"

"Long story," McCormick sighed, only somewhat relieved that he'd nailed Hardcastle's destination on the first guess, and feeling a little guilty that he had been half-wishing for Frank to be right.

He took a breath and walked to the elevator at a pace just a notch above procrastination. He stepped aside, as the arriving downward car emptied its full load out into the lobby. He entered the now-empty car and stood there for a moment, his finger poised over the third-floor button. He supposed he might go back and wait in the lobby. The judge would be perfectly _safe_ wandering around his old haunts. Lots of people still knew him here.

He pushed the button. It wasn't about safety. It was that odd look that Perez had had. It would only be multiplied by dozens, once the judge got upstairs among his old colleagues, once he started talking. _They'll think he's crazy; they'll feel sorry for him. _He cringed. _Not that your showing up is likely to make things much better. _

The doors opened on a nearly empty hallway. He went down the hall to the right, almost to the end of the corridor—the judge's old courtroom, door closed and lights out. _The week before the holiday, things are slowing down a little. _He heard voices from around the corner coming toward him—Sid, the judge's old bailiff, and another that Mark didn't recognize. Sid was talking in a low, but animated voice. He looked up as they rounded the corner.

"Mark?" he said, sounding relieved as hell. "What's going on?"

"He's okay?" McCormick asked flat-out. "He's here?"

"Yeah," Sid nodded. "He's standing in front of Judge Stoddard's chambers, _his_ old chambers, looking for his key."

"Where's Stoddard?" Mark asked nervously.

"Gone for the day. What's _wrong_ with him, Mark? I've never seen him like this before."

"He's not crazy," Mark said, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt. "He . . . had a head injury. A car accident. Monday night."

"They let him out of the hospital like that?" Sid said, disbelieving. "Damn insurance companies." The bailiff shook his head. Then he looked up at Mark. "You think maybe you can talk to him? I can't let him in there."

Mark saw the relief on the man's face and wondered when _he'd_ become 'the guy who can deal with Hardcastle'. He smiled thinly, trying to look confident, and stepped past the other two men, who looked all too glad to let him pass.

McCormick waved them back. "Give me a minute." He rounded the corner by himself. It was a short hallway, with a side door on the right hand that led to the courtroom, and the door to the chambers straight ahead, only about twenty-five feet away.

Hardcastle stood with his back to him, looking down at the set of keys he held in his hand. Sorting through them one at a time and then, when he'd apparently reached the end, looking up at the door again with a puzzled frown.

_This wasn't real yet, either_, McCormick thought, standing frozen where he was. _But it is now._ The judge seemed unaware of him, caught in a moment of confusion. It took everything Mark had left in him, to take another step forward and clear his throat.

"I was only back here one other time," he shot a quick glance at Hardcastle and then shifted his gaze to the door, moving up till he was almost side-by-side with the older man. "That was three and a half years ago—the day before you retired. I remember you had a jar of peanuts on your desk, and I was so mad I dumped them out right in front of you."

"Mad at me?"

McCormick smiled sadly. "Mad at you. Mad at everybody. Mostly mad at Martin Cody—he's the guy who had my friend killed, the guy I stole the Coyote from. You wanted me to give the car back. I said I wouldn't."

"A matter of principle?"

"Damn straight."

"And then?"

"You sent me back to the lock-up. And then you got your hands on Cody's file. And after that you helped me nail him."

"_I_ helped _you_?"

"Or maybe it was the other way around." Mark grinned. "It's hard to tell sometimes.

"Like you helped me get Charlie Clarkson's murderer?"

Mark's mouth dropped open for a moment. "You remember _Charlie_?"

"Sure I do." Hardcastle said matter-of-factly. "I've known him from way back, since I was a cop."

"Then—" Mark almost grabbed the older man by the shoulders.

"Frank told me about the murder, this morning."

McCormick's grin faded. "Oh, yeah . . . Frank." He found himself staring at the closed door again. "Anyway . . ." he started up again, after a moment, slowly, "then you retired. And we started going after the ones that had slipped through the cracks."

"Sounds crazy." Hardcastle shook his head. "It sounds _dangerous_. Frank says you almost got killed by the guys who got Charlie."

"That was almost a year ago," Mark said with flat practicality. "I was okay. You found me in time."

There was a long moment. The judge looked down at the keys in his hand, then over his shoulder at the side door that led to the courtroom. Then he shook his head. "Why?" he finally said, quietly, but with deep frustration in his voice. "I don't _get_ it."

"You retired. Nobody _made_ you quit. You wanted to do this." Mark said insistently. Then he took a deep breath. "It's Stoddard's chambers now. All the files, all the _important _stuff, is back at the estate."

The judge slipped his keys back into his pocket, saying nothing. The silence stretched out impossibly.

Mark let out a sigh. He almost reached out for the judge's arm. Almost, but he caught himself again. "Look," he said wearily, "it's been a long day. Can we go home now?"

Still saying nothing, the judge turned and preceded him down the short hallway, into the main corridor, and past the bailiffs, still standing by the door of the darkened courtroom.

00000

Frank took the steps of the courthouse two at a time and, just as he reached the door, encountered Mark, coming out.

"He wasn't at the—"

McCormick jerked his chin just a fraction toward his right shoulder and Frank saw Milt following behind him by a couple of steps, looking deep in thought and none too pleased.

"We're gonna head back to the estate," Mark said quietly.

Frank pulled him aside as the judge plodded by, barely giving him a nod. When he'd gone past, a little ways further, Frank leaned in toward Mark and asked, "He's okay?"

The kid looked at him bleakly. Whatever had been buoying him up this afternoon, when he'd first arrived at the station, was completely gone now.

"Yeah," he finally replied, his voice flat. "It was easier than the trip to the cemetery is going to be." His eyes were following Hardcastle. "Why _did_ he give up being a judge, Frank?"

Harper frowned. "I dunno. He was good at it. But he was better at being the Lone Ranger." He gave the younger man an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "I never heard him say he regretted it."

Mark was still watching Hardcastle's slow trudge. "Till now," he said, and then headed down the steps to catch up.

00000

The drive home had been mostly silent. The judge had had his keys out, almost before they'd pulled up, and he'd gotten out and headed toward the steps as soon as the Coyote had rolled to a stop.

Mark watched him mount the stairs. He was still sitting on the sill of the car, not sure which direction he was going to take. Already on the front porch, the key in the lock, Hardcastle was looking over his shoulder at him.

"Did you have lunch?" he asked.

Mark had to give it a moment's thought. "No . . . I had coffee." He looked down at his watch. Almost five.

He heard the judge say something half to himself, and then saw him shake his head. "Well, you'd better come in here and rustle something up. You've got exams tomorrow, don'tcha?"

Mark nodded, and climbed out of the car and followed the judge in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Friday morning, Frank found Mark standing on the front porch a couple of minutes before nine.

"Sorry, traffic—you won't be late, will you?"

"No, plenty of time. Property Law doesn't start till ten, and Criminal is right after that. If I push it, I can be home by two."

"But you're not going to do that," Frank said firmly. "You're going to take your time and do it right. Right?"

"Frank, I kinda do these things on the reflex. It usually works out better that way. If I think too much, I screw it up."

"A final exam is _not _a racecar, Mark."

"No, you can't hit the wall at two-hundred miles an hour in a multiple-choice test." McCormick had managed a small grin. "Hell, you can't even do that in an essay exam."

Frank found himself smiling, too. Then he glanced over the younger man's shoulder toward the house. "Things going better?"

"Um, yeah, maybe a little . . . I think. He didn't throw me out last night."

"Well," Frank smiled, "there's a start."

"Yeah, he saw what I was studying and he started talking about Miranda v. Arizona, and Escobedo v. Illinois. God, Frank, he said it almost word for word the same last week. It was like he was _back._" The look on Mark's face was painfully hopeful, though it couldn't quite overcome the shadow of doubt in his eyes. "Anyway, he's around back by the pool. He knows you're coming."

"You took the heat on that one, huh?"

McCormick shrugged as he headed down toward the car. "I can take it. You just keep him out of trouble today." Then he was in the car and pulling away.

Frank turned and walked around the side of the house. He found Milt sitting at the table, sorting through a stack of papers. The judge glanced up at him as he approached.

"He's gone?"

"Yeah. Did you wish him luck?" Frank smiled.

"Luck, hell. I quizzed him. He knows his stuff," the judge admitted gruffly. Then he hesitated a moment before he plowed ahead, "I'm . . . I'm sorry I ran out on you yesterday."

"Lemme guess." Frank put his hand to his forehead and half hid a smile. "Mark put you up to this. Am I right?"

"Hell, no," Hardcastle protested, then a pause and, "Well, maybe." He looked out toward the ocean, grimacing. "It's just . . . he said you were really worried yesterday. That I scared you, taking off like that."

"Me, huh?" Frank shook his head. "Yeah, I _was_ . . . Mark was, too."

"How'd he find me so fast?" the judge was staring steadily out at the waves.

"Oh, I'd say he knows you pretty damn well."

The judge looked sharply back at the lieutenant. Then he nodded once. "I . . . I was looking at his file again, last night. The later stuff—my notes. The stuff for the parole board."

Harper waited patiently as the admission came out, in fits and starts.

"Maybe I was a little _hasty_, yesterday. Some of what I said." He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, then said, "I dunno; it just still really seems weird. I mean, I sentenced the guy to _prison_ . . . And neither one of _you_ seems to be able to explain it very well."

"Yeah," Harper smiled more broadly and shrugged, palms up. "What can I say? One of life's little mysteries." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Do you think you can trust us on this one?"

Hardcastle was looking down at the papers. "I guess I'll have to." He'd started speaking again, slowly, without looking up. "But, Frank, you can _know_ something without _feeling_ it." The man was practically gritting his teeth in frustration. "Do you understand? It's like _I_ died fifteen years ago. None of this happened to _me_."

"Maybe . . ." Frank leaned forward in his chair, "maybe you should take Dr. Neely's advice." He hesitated a moment, Hardcastle was looking at him now, fixing him with a wary glare.

"_Which_ advice?"

"About . . . seeing the other specialist," Frank got the last part out in a rush.

"A psychiatrist?" Hardcastle's tone was cool. "You think I'm crazy, huh?"

"No. Not _that_." Frank sat back again. "I just think it might help you _cope_, you know, with all of this."

"Well," the judge went on, almost without a pause, "I'm _not_. I'm not crazy. I don't _feel_ crazy." His right hand was a fist, resting on the papers. "Though I gotta say, I think I mighta been a little crazy _before_."

"No," Harper said emphatically. "You weren't."

There was no answer to this. The two men sat across the table from each other silently for a few moments. Finally Frank said, "Did you want to go anywhere this morning? I can drive you." He frowned for a moment. "When _is_ your appointment with Neely? He said he wanted to see you in a couple of days. You've made one, haven't you?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Mark did. For Monday." His gaze drifted a little. "I thought maybe . . ." he stopped, clearing his throat. "You said Woodlawn? They're both there?"

Harper froze in the judge's questioning gaze. Then he said, simply, "Yes. Both of them."

"I think . . ." the judge frowned. "I think I'd like to . . ."

"We could drive over there," Frank replied quietly.

"Yeah," the judge, "maybe later on."

00000

Mark's first stop that morning was at the bank, making a one-hundred dollar withdrawal from his already slim funds. What had seemed like an excellent idea twenty-four hours ago, had now taken on a freight load of second guessing. No doubt the gift would have been the perfect thing for the _old_ Hardcastle, but this new one? _Or is this the old one and that was the new one?_ He frowned as he stepped up to the teller's window and passed over the slip.

_You stayed up too late last night. _

He watched the teller count out five twenties. Being quizzed by Hardcastle on nonfreehold estates at midnight had been . . . interesting_. Okay, the part when we got to 'tenancy at sufferance' had been a little awkward._

He folded the money into his wallet and checked his watch, wondering just how fast he could plow through the two finals, stop off and buy the gift, and get himself home.

_And then what?_ Then there would be three weeks of sitting across the table from a man who only knew him as a case file—a guy who'd forgotten every one of the thousand adjustments that have to be made when two people spend a whole lot of time in close proximity. _Tenancy at sufferance._

00000

Frank turned in off 14th street and through the gates. The man sitting next to him had been quiet the whole way down the PCH and through Santa Monica. This cemetery was a far cry from the one yesterday—a gentle, civic antique rather than a funerary extravaganza.

He navigated the inner road and stopped near the Hardcastle plot. The judge got out, standing there, looking a little puzzled, waiting for guidance. Frank came around the front of the car and pointed it out to him, a pale gray granite marker of moderate size, between a palm and some neatly trimmed bushes.

He walked to it, Frank only a step behind, and, when he was only a few feet away, he stopped and studied the inscription—Nancy's name and dates. Off to the right side was a smaller stone, only slightly raised, bearing a bronze Marine Corps emblem and Thomas's name, his dates. Planted next to the stone was a small American flag, looking nearly new.

"Veteran's Day. Mark said that was the last time you were here," Frank said quietly.

The judge frowned and stooped to straighten the flag very slightly. "It's been a month?"

"They're not _here,_" Frank insisted, still quietly.

"Then _where_?" Hardcastle replied, just as quiet, almost plaintive.

Frank put one hand on the older man's shoulder. "In memory. In your heart. For fifteen years."

He watched as the man return to the larger stone, and brushed his fingers over Nancy's name, then looked at the blank space on the left half of the stone, giving it a long, silent stare.

Then he turned away and began to walk back to the car.

00000

Mark closed the blue book and put his pen back in his pocket. He'd kept his answers to the point and dispassionate. It didn't pay to get personal on exams in Criminal Law. He surveyed the rest of the lecture hall, all the heads, mostly ten years younger than his own, bowed over their work, pens scribbling, pens poised. He only wished he wasn't going to be the first one getting up. Maybe Frank had a point.

_What the hell difference does it make, anyway? I give it one more week, tops. He'll get the okay from Neely to stay by himself, and you'll be asking Leroy for a job doing repos._

He got up, and delivered his booklet to the front desk, with a thin smile and a nod to the proctor. "Happy holidays," he said grimly.

00000

They pulled up the drive at the estate, after another long and nearly silent trip on the PCH from Santa Monica. The Coyote was parked out in front of the main house.

"He beat us home," Frank observed casually, sneaking a quick glance at his watch.

The man in question could be seen, now that they'd rounded the fountain. He was standing out among the rose bushes, staring down at the ground, looking deeply absorbed in thought. At the sound of the car doors, he looked up, then waved them in his direction.

"Where'd you go?" Mark asked as they approached.

"Woodlawn," Hardcastle replied flatly.

Mark's eyes flicked over to Frank then back again. "Oh." There didn't seem to be much else to say for a moment after that.

Then the judge broke the silence. "How'd the exams go?"

McCormick was looking back at the ground. "They went," he said absentmindedly. And then, after another moment of silence, he looked up at the judge. "Sorry . . . I forgot." He exhaled. "You always ask me that. And that's what I always say." There was a brief flash of a smile. "It doesn't mean anything. A thing about not jinxing it, I guess." He glanced back down again, the smile gone. "Have you been out here recently, Judge?"

"You mean since Monday?" Hardcastle asked dryly.

"Yeah," Mark shook his head, "I mean since Monday."

"No. What are you looking at?"

"I dunno, footprints, I think." He pointed down at something that, with imagination, Frank might have called a print.

The lieutenant stooped, then crouched. Hardcastle leaned over. Mark looked further afield, stepping back carefully from what might be a continuation of the track.

Frank was frowning. "Okay, _maybe_. It's kinda faint. When does the yard service come?"

Mark looked up. "Tuesday mornings, but they don't do anything with _these_ this time of the year. Somebody was walking around here, maybe last night."

"You didn't hear anything?" Harper asked.

Mark scratched the back of his head. "He was lecturing me on Escobedo v. Illinois." He gestured in Hardcastle's direction. "He's _loud_." Then he walked back along the projected path, towards the thicker bushes, still looking down.

Frank heard a 'harrumph' from the judge's direction, followed by, "Has he always been this paranoid?"

"I _heard_ that," Mark said, without lifting his eyes from the ground. "See, here's another one." He pointed to a spot closer to the bushes. "Paranoid, _hah_."

"Maybe," Frank conceded, leaving up in the air, exactly who he was conceding to, "but it hasn't rained in over a week. There's not much there and they might be old; they might be the yard guy's."

"Frank?" Mark made a face. "If I turn out to be right, am I gonna at least get to say 'I told you so'?"

"I dunno, Mark," Harper shook his head, "two footprints in a rose garden isn't exactly the grassy knoll."

"Well," the younger man said, with a stubborn gleam in his eye that Harper was all too familiar with, "it's a _start_."

"He probably smokes, too," Hardcastle said decisively. He'd wandered a little further toward the edge of the property and now he was holding up the remains of a match. "Or maybe he struck it for light, to check an address. I don't see any cigarette butts." He was widening his search among the bushes.

"_See_, Frank?" McCormick pointed at the judge. "Evenhe can tell there's something wrong, and _he_ isn't playing with a full deck."

"I heard that," the judge grumbled.

Frank smiled. "Okay, you two. Someone was here. At some time. Doing something."

"The truck, Frank?" Mark's look didn't quite have it over a puppy dog, but he was damn close. "Please?"

"I'll get it hauled back here. You can look it over. You know where everything's supposed to be as well as anybody."

"And the interior?"

"I'll get one of the techs to give it a once over. We'll dust it, but I'm not gonna have them run anything unless we get something else first." Frank sighed heavily. "And _I_ won't be your personal liaison to the LAPD, if I don't get in there and get dug out of some of my backlog pretty soon." He started to head back toward his car, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. "And you two can do this Hardy Boys thing all you want right here, but you're not going to take it anywhere else without telling me first. Okay, Mark?"

The younger man nodded, with a practiced look of innocence.

"Milt?"

"Well, what the hell would—?" the judge launched into an aggravated mutter that was cut short by Mark's hand on his elbow and a quick shake of the younger man's head.

For a split second the image was so familiar that Frank didn't know whether to rejoice or be wary. In the end he settled for another sigh and another admonition, "Well, at _least_ be careful."

And he left the two men standing side-by-side in the dormant rose garden.

00000

An afternoon's search of the premises provided no other solid evidence of a prowler, but Hardcastle had been impressed. McCormick had been diligent, organized, and persistent as hell. It was only when the early winter twilight began to hinder the search that he was willing to give up and come inside. From there he went straight to the kitchen. It was hard to shake the impression that the kid needed to stay busy.

The judge let him be. He'd been thinking his own thoughts, walking the grid out among the landscaping. And mostly what it kept coming back around to was how wrong that empty space on the gravestone looked—how strange it was to be dead and gone, in all but name only.

He heard the sounds from the kitchen and felt the itching resentment returning. Nancy ought to be coming in from the garden; Sarah calling them both into the dining room, and Tom . . . but Tom was away.

He jumped when he heard the shout from down the hall. "Chow's on." He got up heavily, tried to compose his face. _It's not the damn kid's fault._ He reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his nose. _Damned if any stranger is going to see me like this._ Then he tucked it away and headed into the dining room.

00000

McCormick watched him take his place at the table, moving in a slow, almost formal way that was the strangest thing of all about the man since he'd returned from the hospital. It was as though he'd had fifteen years _added_ to his life, not taken away. He could put it on the list of things that he wanted to ask Dr. Neely about Monday.

_Careful, that_. _Just what are you trying to accomplish there? Hoping the doc will say he can't be left alone for a while longer? If he wants you gone, you'll go. And you'd damn well better not make him choose between you and a sanitarium. _

McCormick felt the flush of guilt steal over him, and suddenly remembered he'd left the ketchup in the kitchen. No meatloaf without ketchup. He was up and away and catching his breath leaning against the sink, he hoped before the judge could notice there was something wrong.

And that's where he was standing when the shot rang out.

00000

Hardcastle was in the kitchen a moment later, shotgun in hand, moving fast with a look of angry confusion on his face.

"What the hell—?"

"Get _down_ dammit," the kid was sitting on the floor, amid shards of glass, in front of the sink. "The light's still on."

The judge dropped to the floor, poking the muzzle of the gun up against the switch and hooking it down with the site. He edged across the floor.

"How many?"

"One shooter, so far. A rifle, maybe a .223. If this isn't a goddamn grassy knoll, I don't know what is." Even in the near darkness, Hardcastle could make out the kid's grin.

"I'm gonna go out the side door," Hardcastle said quietly, "do a little reconnoiter."

"The hell you are. He's got a rifle. You've got a shotgun."

"I've got the element of surprise," the judge reasoned insistently.

"_No_, I think _he_ does. We don't even know how many 'he's' there are out there," McCormick reasoned right back at him. "You call the cops." Mark paused for a moment; they both listened. Nothing. He heard the kid exhale a sigh. "Anyway, I think he's gone. Call Frank. And turn the light back on, but stay away from the window."

Hardcastle made his way back across the room, staying low, and reached up to flick the switch on. He turned for a moment, puzzled as to why the kid was still sitting there, not heading toward the relative safety of the hallway.

Hardcastle thought it was probably the cock-eyed grin that had misled him.

"It hurts too damn much to be serious, Judge; trust me," McCormick lifted his left hand briefly, from where he'd been clutching his right arm, to look at what was underneath. "Yeah, just a scrape. Really. Will ya go ahead and call Frank?"

00000

Forty minutes later, Harper was on the front doorstep. The judge answered before the first knock, looked around warily, and pulled him inside.

"What the hell is this about a shooting, Milt? Why didn't you call it in?"

"I think the kid wanted to say 'I told you so,' to you personally." Hardcastle closed and latched the door behind the lieutenant. "Dammit, Frank, I've never seen anybody so happy to get shot before in my life."

"How bad is it?" Frank said with growing alarm.

"Well, not exactly a scratch," the judge put his hand to his forehead, "more like a gouge, you'd say. But he's right; there was nothing to do but clean it up and put a bandage on it." Hardcastle led him toward the den. "And none of the neighbors called it in, either, huh?"

"Can't hardly blame 'em for that," McCormick looked up at them from the chair alongside the desk. The grin hadn't quite left him, though there was a shade of grimace to it as he shifted around to face them. "It's kind of a thing they've had to get used to around here. Anyway, Frank," the grin was infectiously open now, "how 'bout the truck? Think we got some probable cause now? Maybe the Glendale PD ought to take a look at it."

"People _have_ taken a shot at him before," Frank cocked a thumb at Hardcastle.

"Me? Why?"

"Because you don't have the sense God gave a mule," McCormick rubbed his temple with his left hand and then jabbed the air in the judge's general direction, "and you're always getting in the way of people who _shoot_ people who get in their way. _That's_ why."

"But they were shooting at _you_," Hardcastle replied.

"But _I'm_ just a first-year law student. I don't think they're coming after me because I'm breaking the curve," Mark put his head back on the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. "I got in the way of one of _your_ bullets this time." He paused for a moment, then lifted his head and looked at Frank. "So, we gonna investigate or not?"

"We?" Frank asked mildly.

"Yeah, you, me, and the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle—the guy who never gets anybody mad at him." The grin had taken a testy edge to it. "Dammit, Frank. I want to know why . . . and I want to know _how_." The grin was gone. What was left was a look of pure need. "They took fifteen years, and now I think they're coming back for the rest."

"Yeah," Frank nodded. "You told me so, huh?" There was no humor in the comment.

The kid nodded back.

"I'll call in a team." Frank reached for the phone.

"The guy's gone, Frank," Hardcastle nudged his way back into the conversation. "All you're gonna find out there tonight are some more footprints, a casing, and maybe another match, and all of those will be easier to find in the morning. Let's keep the mars lights off the property and let the neighbors get some rest tonight."

"So where do you want to start?"

"The file," Mark was insistent. "I know it's not much but it must mean _something._ Why did you go to Glendale? And who's Henry?"

Frank watched Hardcastle, who'd reached across the desk for the folder without questioning how Mark knew what it contained. He opened it again, laying it out on the desk before them.

He looked down at what little was written there, then back up at the other two. "If I guess right, do you think I'll be able to tell the difference?" he asked, with more than a twinge of worry in his voice.

"I dunno, Judge," all the angry edge on the younger man was gone now, replaced by concern, "but I really think you gotta try."

Hardcastle gave him a long look, then he stared down at the scribbled notes. "Well, I've known some guys named Henry."

"Good," McCormick nodded his encouragement. "You should make a list of them. It might _be_ somebody from way back, who got in touch with you because they were in some kind of trouble. Maybe someone you knew well enough to just put down a first name."

Frank hoped the doubt he was experiencing wasn't readily apparent on his face. The kid sounded like he was grasping at straws and Milt's face was a study in hopeless bewilderment.

But then, very suddenly, it wasn't.

"It's not an 'S'," the judge announced, quietly, but with a great deal of certainty.

"What?" came from both of the other men almost simultaneously.

"It's a five." He turned the folder around to face them and pout his finger on the spot. "It's 5 1721. It's a phone number."

It was Mark's turn to look befuddled. "But—"

"_Glendale_ 5-1721," Hardcastle was smiling. "It's an exchange."

McCormick winced. "We don't have those anymore, Judge."

But now Frank was smiling, too. "Hubbard five, thirty-one hundred."

"That's right," the judge grinned, "you started out doing beat in the Hollenbeck district."

"Ten years," Frank said, "I know _all _those numbers."

McCormick was looked back and forth between the two men. "_Exchanges_?"

"Yeah," Frank nodded, "it could be. I still do it sometimes. They're a lot easier than remembering seven numbers." He turned to McCormick. "Come on, Mark, you're not _that_ young. Don't you remember your home phone exchange from when you were a kid?"

A moment of awkward silence followed. Oddly, it was Hardcastle who caught the drift first. "Well, we didn't have one either, growing up," he spouted out without any apparent embarrassment. "Didn't even get a radio until after the REA, and I was almost out of high school by then."

"Juniper," McCormick said quietly. "That was the exchange down at the drugstore. I haven't thought about that for a long time." He looked at Hardcastle quizzically, "You still remember them that way?"

"I dunno," the judge shrugged. "I did fifteen years ago."

"Then you still do." McCormick nodded once, decisively. He reached for the phone as he glanced down at the notation one more time. He searched for a moment for the 'g' and the 'l' then punched the rest of the numbers in without hesitation. When he finished he hit the intercom button and recradled the receiver. The three men listened to the rings.

Four . . . five. McCormick frowned, and started to reach for the phone again just as an answering machine picked up. "This is Symnetech, Inc., research division. Please leave your name, number and a brief message after the tone, and we will get back to you as soon as we can." He hit the disconnect before the beep even finished.

Frank's eyebrows went up. He looked over at Hardcastle, not really expecting to see any glimmers of recognition. McCormick hadn't even bothered. He was staring down at the phone, deep in concentration.

"I'll have to cross-reference it through the files. It's not ringing any bells for me right off. But there's a ton of stuff down there that I've never even looked at. Maybe you could run it through your databases, Frank. I don't think anyone's going to be answering the phone there this weekend but if I can get an address . . ."

Just what he was planning to do with that information was left to the imagination of the two older men, who were both now staring at him, Frank with mild nervousness, and Hardcastle with growing aggravation.

McCormick was caught for a moment in the judge's glare. Then he glared right back and said, "Come _on_, Hardcase. All that top-secret, hush-hush stuff with the files ended about two years ago. You've practically force-fed me the damn things. After all that, I'm sure as hell _not_ going back to that 'need-to-know' status. This is too important."

Frank was chuckling, "He's right Milt, between the two of you, you're like a walking encyclopedia of West Coast criminality."

"The files are _locked_," the judge pointed out stubbornly.

McCormick leaned to the side a little and reached into his own pocket. He tossed his key ring down on the desk. "March, last year. You had me make copies." There was an edge of belligerence that covered over any pain that might have been underneath.

"Then why—"

"Not the desk, though. That's _yours_," McCormick conceded. "But _that_ file's old news. That guy doesn't exist anymore."

Frank had been watching the judge's face. Now his eyes snapped back to the younger man, and he saw in an instant that Mark hadn't meant it as hyperbole. _To completely reinvent yourself, to do it for someone else's approval, and then to lose that._

Frank opened his mouth, not quite sure of what he was going to say, but wanting to defuse the situation before it became irreversible. The judge spoke before he could.

"You know, that file's not _all_ bad."

McCormick's eyebrows went up a little at this unexpected admission. "No," he replied, appearing a little less tense. "I _didn't_ know. I've never read it."

Frank sat back, feeling the crisis pass. He rubbed his hand over his face. "Okay, so . . . you _two_," he put a very slight emphasis on the word, "will see if you can come up with any background information here. I'll check it out, at least try to get us some names and an address." He got to his feet slowly.

"And the truck, Frank," Mark added a reminder.

"Oh, yeah, and on the weekend before a holiday. Glendale PD is gonna thank me, for sure—not enough staff and too much mayhem. Don't count on anything from them real soon."

Mark rose, too, and saw him to the door.

00000

Hardcastle sat at his desk, willing to let the kid be the proxy host, and not sure exactly why. The whole thing about the files, hell, he'd taken a look at them that first day back and hadn't recognized much at all. Now to find out this was yet another piece of McCormick's turf. He'd just snapped. And then to see the effect his words had had.

He was still sitting there, a few moments later, still staring down at the keys that lay on the desk, when McCormick returned.

"Sorry," the younger man said, as he reached forward and scooped them up, weighing them for a moment in his hand before shoving them back in his pocket.

"Sorry for what?" Hardcastle grumbled mildly.

"For whatever it is that I keep doing to piss you off." Mark flashed a brief, small smile. "Sort of a general, all-purpose 'sorry'. . . But don't expect another one too soon; you've been a real pain in the—"

"Yeah," Hardcastle heaved a sigh and got up out of the chair. "Maybe we should start on those files."

Mark's grin was irrepressible. "Now you're cookin'."

00000

Hardcastle's brief startlement did not pass unnoticed by Mark, but it seemed the judge had taken some vow of good behavior, so he merely followed the younger man down the stairs and even allowed him to fish his keys out again and open the locks.

For his part, McCormick tried not to be too obvious in his familiarity. Though it pretty quickly became apparent that _someone_ needed to know how things were organized, and it wasn't the judge.

Mark brushed absentmindedly at a cobweb that had collected between the top of one cabinet and the wall, then muttered his comment on the obvious, "We haven't been down here that much lately."

"You've been busy with school."

McCormick shot him a glance as he pulled open the first drawer. "Yeah," he admitted, chagrined at how close to the truth the judge had come with the comment.

"What was I doing, then?" the older man asked curiously.

"Dunno," but he couldn't help it; the rest came out before he could stop himself, "You weren't supposed to be doing _this _without me. You're right when you said it was dangerous."

"I was a cop before I was a judge, you know."

"Even cops have back up."

"And you were mine?"

"Yeah," McCormick said simply, as though there wasn't anything else that needed to be said about that.

He lifted out a stack of files and set them on the worktable behind them. Then opened another drawer, selecting, pulling, stacking. By the time he was done, there were at least thirty of them.

"Mobsters with business ties, businessmen who are embezzlers, investment scams—can you think of anything else?" He pulled up two chairs and sat himself down in one of them, taking a file off the top of the nearest stack.

Hardcastle shook his head. He sat down in the other chair, still staring at the piles. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the cabinets. "How many are there, altogether?"

"Lots," McCormick replied absently, as he skimmed the contents of the first file. After a moment he glanced up at the older man, frowning. "You didn't have _any_ of these . . . before?"

Hardcastle took a long slow look at the cabinets, and finally pointed toward the one on the end. "That was in my chambers. I keep my current cases in the top drawer, my lunch in the bottom. And the telephone directory."

Mark glanced aside to where he was pointing. "The bottom drawer is Reno mobsters; the top one is, um, drug dealers—A through M." He reached for a second file.

"Oh," Hardcastle nodded, looking a little self-conscious. Then there was a pause before he added, "It seems kinda . . . _obsessive_."

McCormick was deep into the second file. Turning a page, he looked up again. "Yeah," he conceded. "A little. . . .maybe." He looked around at the file cabinets, as though he was also seeing them for the first time. "It was your life," he added quietly. "Mine, too."

00000

Hardcastle tried to settled down and tackle his share of the files, though the dates were jarring and the information almost completely unfamiliar. Every once in a while something grabbed his attention him, and one time he heard himself say, "So that's what happened to—" before he caught himself. The kid had already looked up.

"What?"

"Oh, a guy," the judge said, "from a couple of years . . . from _eighteen_ years back," he corrected himself.

McCormick leaned over and looked at the file, then frowned. "We got him already. He's still awaiting trial, though. That's probably why you haven't re-filed it yet."

He saw the kid sit back and rub the bridge of his nose wearily. Hardcastle looked down at his own watch, then up again. The unfinished stack had dwindled to a handful and neither one of them had made any exciting discoveries.

"It's past two," Hardcastle pointed out. "Maybe we should knock it off for the night. It's been a long day."

McCormick sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he exhaled. "It has. He looked aside at the stacks they'd gone through. "I'll re-file these tomorrow."

"Nah," the judge shook his head. "I'll do it. It'll keep me busy."

McCormick looked a little doubtful.

"Hell," the judge shrugged. "It's my system; I ought to be able to figure it out."

Mark's laugh was abrupt, and short. He tamped it down but was still smiling when he choked out, "That'll be more than I could ever do. It's . . . _unique_," he added, with one last look around the room as he stood up.

The two men plodded up the stairs, but, to the judge's surprise, McCormick headed for the kitchen, not the front door.

"Just a snack," the younger man shrugged, when he realized he was being stared at. "File reading makes me hungry and, anyway, I never got any meatloaf. You go on to bed."

"You'll lock up on your way out?" The judge asked, but before he could turn to go, he caught something in McCormick's expression that made him look harder. He finally said, "You're gonna hang out down here all night, huh. You think that guy might come back?"

"He might. But we don't _both_ have to stay up. You should get some sleep." The kid frowned. "Neely said something about rest, I think."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Hardcastle protested.

"Hah," McCormick snorted. "You don't need a _keeper_. You _do_ need a bodyguard. Somebody's trying to kill you, Judge." The kid was fixing him with a hard, determined stare. Finally he added, "Just till it's light out. I'll take a nap tomorrow. I'm not gonna be able to sleep anyway."

After a long moment, Hardcastle asked, "You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

"No worse than usual," Mark replied without hesitation.

The judge frowned. "So, how crazy is that?"

McCormick laughed again. This time it was lighter, and his answer had the ring of conviction to it when he said, "Just crazy enough."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hardcastle had just peeked into the den on his way to the front porch for the morning paper. _Some bodyguard_, he thought, seeing McCormick sprawled across one of the armchairs, which had been turned to face the door.

But he hadn't even reached the doorknob when he heard the shouted, "Hold it!", and felt McCormick behind him in the hallway. By the time he whirled around, the kid had already lowered the shotgun and was looking annoyed.

"What the hell are ya doin', Judge? Sneakin' around like that could get you shot."

"I wasn't sneaking; I just wanted my paper. You're the one that fell asleep on guard duty." Hardcastle had fired the response back hotly, giving little credence to the inner voice that was pointing out that the kid was pretty damn alert, and it seemed unlikely anyone would've gotten past him.

_You mean, unlikely anyone would've gotten to you,_ the voice insisted, as Hardcastle watched the young man shake his head and turn silently to place the shotgun in its proper place. He muttered an attempt at peace-making before things got too heated.

"But I didn't mean to scare you."

"'S all right," McCormick muttered back. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifty. "I've got things to do today, anyway, and you already let me sleep in. I'll start the coffee before I jump in the shower." He headed toward the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

"What kinda things?" Hardcastle questioned, padding along behind.

Mark shrugged. "Chores, errands. The kind of stuff that always keeps Tonto busy."

The judge watched silently as McCormick measured coffee into the filter and filled the pot with water. But by the time the young man flipped the switch on the machine, it was clear he didn't intend to offer further information.

"Do I usually let you by with those kind of half-assed answers?"

McCormick chuckled as he turned to face Hardcastle. "Well, no," he admitted. He held up his hand to stop the argument. "But you do usually know when not to push."

"And I suppose you're tellin' me this is one of those times?" Hardcastle growled.

"You got it, Kemosabe." He turned to put the coffee can back in the cupboard.

"It would probably be dangerous for you, too," Hardcastle said quietly, after a few seconds.

McCormick twisted to look behind him. "What?"

"Working without backup, I mean," the judge continued. "If it's dangerous for me, then—" He broke off as he saw the smile creeping across McCormick's face.

"Don't worry, Judge; that's not what this is about. I'm not working without you. But thanks."

Without really knowing why, Hardcastle decided immediately that an outright falsehood would probably not be McCormick's style. "Okay then, good. In that case, I think I'll take a shower myself while the coffee brews, then I'll read the paper."

"It's a plan," McCormick answered, the smile still lingering. "And I'll start the breakfast in just a bit." He tossed a mock salute toward the judge, and disappeared out the back door.

00000

"There's nothin' like sausage gravy and biscuits," Hardcastle mumbled around his food as he ate the last bite on his plate.

McCormick grinned. "You always say that. The first time Sarah brought it in for breakfast, I though she'd lost her mind. It's not the kind of thing you eat back in Jersey, but it grows on you. I never have gotten the hang of Sarah's biscuit recipe, though, but these from the can aren't bad."

"Not bad at all," the judge agreed, "and it _is_ kind of a southern thing, I guess." He glanced up at the kid. "Thanks."

McCormick shook his head slightly. "Can I let you in on a little secret, Judge?" He waited for the nod, then went on. "You hardly ever thank me for stuff, and you sure as hell don't thank me for cookin' breakfast."

"Well, why not?" Hardcastle demanded. "It's the polite thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but . . . " Mark hesitated. "I don't know. It's just not you. I mean, no offense, but you're not exactly a 'polite' kinda guy, certainly not with me. Can't you just be yourself?"

"No offense to you, either, but 'myself' doesn't know you from Adam. And besides, last night you said I was being a pain in the— "

"Okay, okay," McCormick interrupted, "forget I said anything. I'm not trying to start an argument here." He took a breath. "I'm glad you enjoyed your breakfast. Why don't you finally read your paper while I do the dishes?"

"I could help," the judge offered, "or is that being too 'polite'?"

With a slight laugh, McCormick picked up the plates and moved them over to the sink. "Normally we would trade off," he explained, "I cook, you clean, then we'd swap. But for right now," he added quickly, before Hardcastle could rise from his seat, "I'll take care of the kitchen duty. When you go see Neely on Monday, I'd like to be able to honestly report that you've had a very easy-going week."

"Then we'll leave out the part about being shot at," Hardcastle said blandly, as he picked up his paper.

"Good idea," Mark grinned, and began scraping the dishes.

After a few minutes, Hardcastle looked up. "You could put those in the machine, you know."

McCormick just shrugged without turning around. "There aren't that many; it won't take long."

They lapsed back into a silence that was only broken with rustling paper and sloshing water until Hardcastle said, surprised, "Someone parachuted into Shea stadium during the World Series?"

McCormick did turn then, a look of concern on his face. "Yeah, some guy, said he was a big Mets fan." He paused. "Are you doing okay with the news? I hadn't really thought about—"

"How I wouldn't have the slightest idea what was going on?" Hardcastle interrupted. "Yeah. It's been interesting. You know, it said Andrei Sakharov just got released from exile. He was making waves over in Russia that even _I_ remember, but they hadn't exiled him. I guess he turned into a real troublemaker.

"But anyway, what about this guy and Shea stadium?"

McCormick grinned. _Forget world politics; let's talk baseball._ "What about him? He jumped in, delayed the game a bit, things went on. Some say he cost Boston the series, turned the tide. He was arrested for it."

"As well he shoulda been," Hardcastle blustered. "Interrupting the World Series. What an ass."

"At the time, you said he had gumption."

"And it says here all they're doing is fining him and giving him community service," the judge slapped at the paper, and went on as if Mark hadn't spoken. "They oughta throw away the key."

"Well, you said that, too," McCormick admitted ruefully as he turned back to the sink, leaving Hardcastle to grumble over the state of the world.

He was still grumbling when Mark dried and put away the last fork, rinsed the sink, and slipped his watch back onto his wrist.

"I've gotta go out for a while, Judge." He glanced at his watch again. "In just a few minutes. I won't be gone long, only a couple of hours or so."

Hardcastle looked up quizzically. "You're going alone?"

McCormick nodded. "I told you, I'm not working. It's errands."

"You're gonna trust me here alone?"

McCormick glanced away, a slightly guilty expression on his face. He busied himself with rearranging the hand towel.

Hardcastle sighed. "Frank's on his way, huh? Jeez, I don't need a round the clock babysitter, ya know."

"He had to bring a team out anyway," McCormick reminded him, "after last night."

"Convenient timing."

McCormick crossed back to the table and plopped down into his chair. He looked across the table intently. "I'm not gonna apologize for this, Judge," he said firmly. "I mean, I am sorry you don't like it, and I'm sorrier than hell that it's necessary, but it _is_ necessary. I told you last night: somebody is trying to kill you. I don't intend to let that happen. Be mad about it if you want, but there's nothing you can do to change it."

Hardcastle stared for several long seconds, then finally asked, "And do I usually let you get away with that much attitude?"

McCormick grinned slightly as he pulled himself up from the chair. "You've learned to live with it."

00000

McCormick stepped out onto the porch as soon as the sedan pulled to a stop.

"How's things?" Harper called as he climbed out of his car.

"Okay," McCormick answered with a shrug. "I don't think they're gonna find much," he said, jerking his thumb toward a second car pulling up the drive. "I took a quick look around out there this morning, and there's not much to see. The casing's there, though."

Harper just shook his head. "I'll assume you didn't touch anything in the crime scene?"

"Of course not. Anyway, Hardcastle's down in the basement putting his files back in some kind of order. We didn't find anything useful there. And I've called a guy to come replace the kitchen window. I don't know if he'll be here before I get back or not."

"What's his mood like today?"

Another shrug. "He's a little pissed that we won't leave him home without a 'babysitter', but he'll get over it."

"Did you tell him where you're going?"

"Ah, no. I thought I'd let that be a surprise."

"He doesn't really like surprises all that much, you know."

One last shrug, accompanied by a small grin. "Then I guess I'll just hope he remembers you told him to be nice."

Harper just laughed as he watched the kid climb into the Coyote, then gave quick directions to his lab team before going into the house.

00000

McCormick fidgeted as he stood at the airport gate, thinking about just how much Milton Hardcastle didn't like surprises. _And you just told him to quit being so nice,_ he thought regretfully. _Might shoulda waited a bit on that._

But still. Surely this would be a good surprise. _And even Milton Hardcastle must like good surprises._

He hadn't really managed to find much comfort in his inner musings before he heard the PA announce the arrival of the plane. _Too late to worry about it now,_ he thought, as he stood slightly straighter. After another few minutes, the passengers began disembarking, and he watched carefully for a familiar figure.

Finally, he spotted her: a slender, gray-haired figure, walking alone, and carrying a single floral satchel. He hadn't anticipated the way his heart would suddenly feel lighter at her arrival, and he rushed past the ticket counter to sweep her into his arms and spin her around joyfully.

"Young man! Put me down this instant."

McCormick complied immediately, but he couldn't erase the huge grin from his face. "Sarah. I am so glad to see you."

"So it would seem," the older woman replied in her most serious tone, but her grin was almost a match for Mark's.

"Here, let me take that," McCormick continued, reaching for her bag.

She handed him the bag, then reached up to lay her hand gently on his cheek.

"Are you all right, Mark?" she asked, abandoning all pretense at anger. "You sounded so worried when you called."

"I'm much better now," Mark answered honestly. "Come on; I'll fill you in as we drive."

Sarah managed to hold her questions until Mark had pulled down the passenger side door on the Coyote and then climbed in behind the steering wheel. Then she spoke softly.

"You said there was an accident? But that he's all right?"

McCormick nodded as he pulled from the parking lot. "Yeah. He was banged up a little, but not much." He glanced in the rearview mirror to change lanes. "But that's not really the problem, Sarah."

And Sarah Wickes, who had learned several years earlier the secret to overcoming Mark McCormick's hesitations, turned her head and let her blue eyes pin him with a gaze that finally forced him to glance back at her.

"Tell me what happened," she said simply, and her tone allowed no further delay.

"He's lost his memory," McCormick blurted, as he tried to determine the best way to convey all that had transpired.

"He _what_?"

"Not all of his memory," the young man continued quickly, "just the last fifteen years, or so." He took a breath. "When he woke up in the hospital after the accident, he thought it was 1971. He was asking for Nancy. And Tommy." He thought that should probably get the point across.

Sarah didn't turn her gaze away, but she contemplated the information for long, long seconds before she finally spoke. "He doesn't remember you."

It wasn't a question, and McCormick had known the woman would grasp the idea immediately. "No, he doesn't." He flipped on the blinker and accelerated onto the highway.

"What do the doctors say?"

"They don't know what's wrong," Mark answered with a small shrug. "He's got an appointment on Monday with the neurologist he saw in the hospital, but they've already said all the tests were normal enough. It's been almost a week, and nothing has really changed. I think they're probably just gonna try and pawn him off on a shrink."

"But you don't think that's what he needs?"

"Of course not!" He took another deep breath. "Sarah, I'm not even sure he needs the neurologist. I don't think this is some kind of injury from the accident, and I don't think it's something that just happened to him. I think someone did this to him on purpose." He didn't look over at the older woman, but simply drove, waiting for the protests to begin.

It took a couple of miles before Sarah replied. "Have you told anyone else?"

McCormick felt the gratitude wash over him, and he knew in that instant that he would gladly put up with any amount of anger from Hardcastle just to have this woman here now.

"I've talked to Frank Harper; he's mostly on board with the idea. He became a lot more convinced last night after someone took a shot at us out at the estate." He heard the small gasp from the passenger seat and grimaced slightly. "Sorry. I forgot I hadn't gotten to that part yet."

But when he glanced over, McCormick saw that Sarah was just shaking her head slowly, with a long-suffering look of understanding on her face.

"Some things never change," she sighed.

"No," Mark agreed with a slight grin, "I guess they don't. Anyway, Frank's helping me keep an eye on the judge, and next week, after the doctor's appointment, we'll try and do a little investigating. That hasn't really changed, either."

"So what can I do?"

"Honestly, Sarah, I just thought it might be nice for him to see another familiar face. It's been a little weird for him, having a stranger living in his home. And he was asking about you the other day. And," he admitted, "I thought it might be nice for me to see a friendly face for a day or two."

"He's being incorrigible, is he?" Sarah asked knowingly.

"It's been hard on him," McCormick answered sadly.

"Hard on you both," Sarah corrected.

The young man kept his eyes glued to the road, and there was a pause before the whispered response that he breathed out like a confession. "Yeah."

Sarah patted his knee. "It's okay, Mark. Things are going to be okay." And then she turned the conversation to happier topics, and they caught up on the other things in their lives.

By the time they were cruising into Malibu, Mark had not only recounted the entire last week's events, but he'd told her all about his latest semester in school and the latest girl he'd been dating, and he'd heard all about the latest news of Sarah's sister, and a gaggle full of great-nieces and nephews. He felt better than he had in days. But then his tone became serious again.

"There's one other thing I need to tell you, Sarah."

"You're taking that Tammy girl to the holiday ball instead of me?" she joked.

McCormick grinned. "Never. But listen, the judge doesn't know you're coming. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"You mean, you didn't want him getting mad at you again for interfering in his life," she interpreted.

"Well, okay. There was that, too."

"You're _both_ incorrigible," the woman accused with a small grin.

And McCormick just laughed as he drove under the Gull's Way arch. "Welcome home, Sarah; welcome home."

00000

Mark helped Sarah from the Coyote, grabbed her bag, and escorted her up the steps and into the house.

"Judge?" he called from the entryway. "Are you up here?"

"In the den, Mark," came the answering shout.

Sarah looked at him quizzically. "Mark?"

McCormick grimaced. "That's Frank's fault. I told you it's been kinda weird around here."

"Are you talkin' to yourself out there?" Hardcastle called.

"Ah, no, sorry." McCormick dropped the bag by the door and flashed a grin at the older woman. "Here we go." He stepped into the doorway. Hardcastle and Harper were seated in the armchairs, the television on, but the volume very low. "There's someone who wants to see you, Judge."

Both men turned to face the voice. Hardcastle looked curious, but Mark would've sworn Harper was preparing for defensive maneuvers. McCormick took a single step to the side and held his hand out to escort their guest inside. And he held his breath.

For a split second, there was an expression of shocked delight in Hardcastle's eyes as he looked at his long-time friend and previous housekeeper. But then his eyes hardened and he turned back to McCormick. There was no mistaking the anger and accusation in those eyes, and McCormick felt his heart sink. But Hardcastle quickly brought himself under control and turned back to the woman.

"Sarah," he greeted with a very real smile as he rose from his chair, "it's good to see you."

She stepped into the room and met him halfway. "You too, Your Honor." She smiled as he folded her into a quick embrace, then released her. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Sarah, I'm good." He glared behind her at the ex-con standing immobile in the door. "No matter what you might've heard." But then he pushed the anger aside again, and the smile returned. "Come on in." He led her further into the den. "You remember Frank Harper."

"Of course," Sarah smiled. "How have you been, Lieutenant?"

Harper was standing now, too. "I'm fine, Sarah," he said genially. "How are you?"

They spent a few minutes exchanging more social pleasantries, and Sarah explained that she was visiting overnight. McCormick wisely stayed out of the mix, though Sarah had pointedly used the phrase 'Judge Hardcastle and Mark' more than once.

Finally, the woman said that she'd like to excuse herself to go freshen up a bit.

"I'll take your bag to your room, Sarah," McCormick offered, turning to leave.

"Good idea," Hardcastle agreed. "Then I'd like to talk to you a minute," he added darkly.

McCormick swallowed hard, nodded his understanding, and slipped out the door. He heard both Sarah and Frank coming immediately to his defense, but he doubted it would do much good.

In Sarah's bedroom, he placed the bag on the dresser, then turned to go back, determined to face whatever Hardcastle had to dish out, but then Sarah was in the doorway. She smiled at him gently.

"He is a little angry," she warned.

"I know," McCormick sighed, resigned. He brightened. "But you know what? It's gonna be a good weekend. I'm really glad you're here." He kissed her cheek quickly as he passed by, then grinned. "Besides, he's the only one with memory problems around here; _I_ haven't forgotten how to handle _him_."

By the time McCormick returned to the den, Hardcastle was clearly trying to get rid of Harper—at least temporarily—and the lieutenant was just as clearly trying to stick around and run interference. He smiled in spite of his tension.

"Here's the way I see it," Mark began, as he stepped down into the room. "Frank has been here a lot this past week, and he might actually need to get home. Claudia's probably beginning to forget what he looks like. If he needs to go, I'll show him out, then I'll come right back and you can yell at me to your heart's content, Judge.

"On the other hand," he continued before either man could interrupt, "I'm grilling steaks this afternoon for a nice, leisurely lunch, and he's welcome to stay for that, if he'd like. He's probably earned at least that much. And you, Hardcase, are welcome to yell at me in his presence. God knows, it wouldn't be the first time, and I doubt seriously it'll be the last." He folded his arms across his chest and glared the challenge across the room. "So what's it gonna be, gentlemen?"

For his part, Hardcastle just glared back silently, but Harper laughed out loud.

"What if I want the steak, but not the yelling?" the lieutenant inquired with a grin, seeming to understand instinctively that McCormick had this situation under control.

McCormick grinned back at him. "Then you get to go fire up the grill. Just put it on a low flame; it'll heat slowly and be ready in a while. Plenty of time for me to get yelled at in private."

"Okay, then," Harper replied, moving toward the door, "that's what I'll do." He paused as he passed by the younger man. "You're sure?" he whispered.

Grinning his thanks, McCormick answered, just as quietly, "Yeah, I'm sure."

And then Harper was gone, leaving the others alone in a thick silence.

"Since when do ex-cons get to be such good friends with cops?" Hardcastle finally demanded.

"Since donkey ex-judges bring them into their home and force them into hob-knobbing with people on the right side of the law," McCormick shot back. "Whattsa matter? Jealous?"

Hardcastle snorted. "Don't try to distract me." He jerked his thumb toward one of the chairs. "Sit down." Then he turned to sit behind his desk.

McCormick obeyed the instruction silently, simply waiting.

After several long seconds, the judge finally spoke again. "You had no right, inviting her here." He spoke calmly, but the resentment would've been hard to miss.

"Actually," McCormick contradicted, "I had every right. She's not just _your_ friend, you know, and this is _my_ home, too."

"Only because I say so," Hardcastle snapped.

"Well . . . yeah." McCormick refused to give into the fear trying to rear its head. "But you've been saying so a long time, and that does give me some rights. Besides, Judge, you were asking about her. I thought you'd be glad to see her."

"I _am_ glad to see her," Hardcastle admitted after another minute. "But that doesn't mean I think you should've invited her. I already told you I don't need someone lookin' after me. And besides, maybe . . . " he trailed off, considering, then finally finished, "maybe I don't want her seeing me like this."

McCormick wasn't sure which comment to address first, so he started with the easiest. "She's not here to look after you, Judge," he assured the older man. "Jeez, she's gotta go home tomorrow afternoon; how much lookin' after do you think she could be doing? And as for the other thing—" He broke off, not sure yet exactly what he intended to say.

When the silence had stretched longer than seemed reasonable, Mark quit looking for the perfect words, and simply said what was in his heart.

"You need to listen to me, Judge. You don't have anything to be ashamed of here. Whatever is going on, it certainly isn't your fault, and no one thinks any less of you because of it. Sarah is here because she _cares_ about you, not because she expects something _from_ you. You have got to understand that we all just want to help. That doesn't make you weak; it doesn't make you less in any way. Hell, if you want to know the truth, I think it makes you pretty damn lucky. There are a lot of people who only want what's best for you, Hardcastle. Maybe you could think about that for a minute, instead of— " He stopped himself again, suddenly believing that he was close to going too far.

But Hardcastle seemed to get the idea. "Instead of feeling sorry for myself?" he asked, just a touch of challenge in his tone.

"I didn't say that," McCormick said defensively.

"You were thinking it," the judge accused.

The young man didn't offer an outright denial. "Not on purpose."

And then, unexpectedly, Hardcastle grinned. "So it was an accident?"

"Something like that," McCormick replied hesitantly, not quite able to relax just yet.

And just as suddenly, the grin faded from the older face. "The thing is," he said seriously, "this has all been very strange. You guys have told me a lot of stuff that just doesn't seem real to me. Hell, I don't _want_ it to be real. You say you don't think I'm crazy, but to tell you the truth, I'm starting to wonder. And then you go and bring Sarah back here, after you already told me she retired. What am I supposed to think?"

"Judge, I told you; it's not because—"

He waved off McCormick's attempt at interruption. "No, listen. I don't care about that now. I want to ask you something." He looked intently into the young blue eyes. "We're supposed to be friends, right?"

"Uh, right."

"And I can trust you?"

"Of course."

"Because you don't lie to me."

"Because I would d— Right."

"Then tell me now, Mark. Are you keeping something from me? _Am_ I crazy?"

And finally, though his heart was breaking, McCormick did feel some of the tension leave his body. He mustered up a small smile as he looked back at his best friend.

"Judge, you might be the biggest donkey on the face of this earth, but you are _not_ crazy. Honestly, I would tell you if there was a problem here. I mean, more of a problem than someone trying put you into a state of totally permanent memory loss. To tell you the truth, I've never really been very good at keeping things from you, anyway. And I'm pretty sure you would've tossed my butt right back in the can if I'd ever really tried."

A grin slowly worked its way across Hardcastle's face. "That does sound like an idea I would've approved of," he concurred. Then he rose from his seat and motioned toward the door.

"C'mon. The yelling at is over, and someone promised to grill some steaks."

00000

The men had found Sarah on the patio with Frank, and the four of them had talked non-stop while the self-proclaimed King of the Grill had cooked potatoes, corn on the cob, and steaks to perfection. Sarah had slipped into the kitchen—over numerous and loud protests—long enough to throw together a tossed salad and mix up a gallon of iced tea.

Then the conversation had continued over the meal, with many of the topics centering on the past exploits of the local Lone Ranger and his faithful Tonto, and McCormick had been amused—and touched—to see both Frank and Sarah carefully avoiding some of his more questionable activities.

Finally, the table had been cleared and midday had turned to late afternoon, when Harper said, "I really should be heading home, Milt. But maybe we can talk a little business before I go."

But it was McCormick who answered first. "Business? Have you been holding out on us, Frank?"

The detective grinned at the mild accusation in the tone. "Not really. I just thought I'd enjoy the afternoon first."

"So what've you got?" Hardcastle asked impatiently.

"Not much, just an address to Symnetech. I knew we couldn't do anything with it until Monday, anyway." He flashed a quick, meaningful glance back at McCormick, who simply looked back innocently.

"At any rate," the detective went on, "it's over in Glendale." He stuck his hand down in his pocket to retrieve a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. "128 Prospect Drive," he read, watching Hardcastle closely. "Some kind of think-tank type of place, sucking up the best and the brightest from over at Caltech. Specializing in biotechnology, or something. Mean anything?"

The judge gave the information a long moment's consideration before shaking his head. "No, nothing. Sorry."

"What about you, Mark?" Harper asked, but the young man was already shaking his head, too.

"Nope. But I can check it out. Monday, I mean," he added quickly.

"Yeah, Monday," Harper repeated firmly.

"_We'll_ check it out Monday," Hardcastle corrected, oblivious to the private conversation going on between the other two men.

"Exactly what I meant to say, Judge," McCormick agreed lightly, flashing a grin back at Harper.

The lieutenant shook his head slightly as he rose from the table. "Okay, that's pretty much what I figured. I'm gonna shove off outta here, then. Thanks for a great meal. You guys stay out of trouble." He turned to the woman sitting silently at the head of the table. "Sarah, it was good to see you again."

"You, too, Lieutenant," she smiled back. She let her eyes meet his. "And I'll make sure they behave."

Harper just laughed as a very brief flicker of guilty concern crossed McCormick's face, then he finished his good-byes and left.

The other three sat in a companionable silence for a while until Sarah said, "I saw you hung the lights, Your Honor. It'll be good to see this place lit up again."

Hardcastle looked back at her blankly, then between the two of them. "Don't I _always_ hang the lights?"

"Not since I've been here," McCormick answered.

"Not in a very long time," Sarah said gently. "But I'm glad you did now. But when are you getting your tree?" she went on. "Christmas is next week, you know."

"Do I usually do _that_?" the judge responded.

"Always," she told him.

Hardcastle looked back at McCormick. "Still?"

Mark nodded slowly. "We had planned to do it Friday," he said softly, "after I finished my exams."

Hardcastle sat silently for a moment. He looked at Sarah to find some direction. She offered him an encouraging smile.

"You could've said something," he finally said.

"Like what?" McCormick asked with a small smile. "'I know you don't remember me at all, Judge, but let's go pick out a Christmas tree together.'? I'm sure that would've gone over real well. Besides, there's been a lot going on."

Sarah was nodding slightly now, so Hardcastle took that as a sign to proceed. "Well there's nothing going on now," he pointed out. He looked the question across the table.

"Judge, you don't have— "

"I know I don't have to," Hardcastle interrupted. "I want to. Sarah's right. Christmas is next week. We can't be so wrapped up in all this…whatever is going on…that we don't have some fun. Whatta ya say? Do they still have that lot down at the corner of Porto Marina?"

The sudden enthusiasm was infectious, and McCormick grinned. "We go there every year."

The judge clapped his hands together. "Good. They always have the best trees." He had pushed himself out of his chair and taken several steps toward the drive before he realized he was alone. He turned back to the table. "You comin'?"

Laughing, Mark jumped to his feet. "Sarah?"

The woman was smiling broadly, but she shook her head. "No. You two go ahead. I'll help when you get back."

McCormick leaned down to give her a hug as he moved toward the drive. "You've already helped," he whispered in her ear, then rushed to follow the judge.

00000

Just over an hour later, they pulled back into the drive at Gull's Way, their final selection tied a bit precariously to the back of the Coyote.

"Told you we'd make it," McCormick grinned over at his passenger.

"I never doubted it," Hardcastle answered with a wink, and for just a moment, things felt so normal, McCormick thought his heart might break.

"So you wanna drill some holes in the thing while I bring the stuff down from the attic?" he asked, but the hesitation that flashed across Hardcastle's face brought home with jarring certainty that things were not normal at all. "Or, we could, uh, do it the other way around, I guess. I mean, whatever you want, we—"

"What I want," Hardcastle interrupted wearily. "I think we've pretty well established that what I want is pretty low on the totem pole these days." He glanced toward the tree on the back of the car. "Starting with the idea that I'm putting up holiday decorations with—"

"A complete stranger?" McCormick interjected. "I know." He pulled himself out of the seat and perched on the window opening. "It was a dumb idea; sorry."

"No, that's not what I meant." Hardcastle looked up at the somber blue eyes. "I just meant that I want to _remember_. I had a whole life, ya know?"

McCormick nodded. "You _have_ a life, Judge. No matter what, it's still yours. I never meant to make you feel like what you want doesn't matter."

The judge nodded back, pulling himself onto his own window. He looked across the roof at the younger man. "I think what I want most right now is to be _normal_. To do what I would've done if this hadn't happened. I think maybe that would help." He paused again, looking around, than admitted slowly, "I'm just not sure I know exactly what that would be."

"I can help you with that, Judge, if you'll let me." Mark spoke sincerely, offering a small smile. "And, in this particular case, you drill holes and I carry boxes. _That's_ normal."

Hardcastle looked at him thoughtfully. "It just seems strange to me, that the ex-con I sent to prison is the best person to help me know what 'normal' is."

McCormick shrugged, willing the smile to stay in place. "I never said it wasn't a little strange, Hardcase, but I _can_ help."

Hardcastle considered for just a moment, then asked, "Even if I get a little cranky about things every once in a while?"

And McCormick managed to laugh as he climbed completely from the car. "Hell, Judge, that'll be the most normal thing in the world."

As he made his way up the steps to the house, McCormick forced his spirits not to plummet. _He's still not sure about me,_ he thought, _but he's trying. He doesn't like it, but_ _he is trying._ That was a start he thought he could live with.

He stepped inside and closed the front door behind him, intending to go immediately upstairs to the attic for the boxes of decorations. But the sounds—and the smells—coming from the direction of the kitchen distracted him, and he started down the hallway.

"Sarah," he scolded playfully as he took in the scene that greeted him, "I didn't ask you here to cook for us."

"I'm not cooking," Sarah clarified as Mark moved to the center island to look at what she was doing, "I'm baking. If there's going to be tree-trimming, there should be cookies."

"I like your logic," McCormick grinned. He looked down at the baking sheets. "And you made shapes."

"Just like you like," Sarah confirmed with a smile. "And the first batch will be done in just a couple of minutes." She pushed the nearest pan closer to him. "You want to put the sprinkles on those?"

"Green for the trees," he agreed happily, as he picked up the shaker.

"So how did it go?" Sarah asked as she continued cutting shapes into the remaining dough.

"It was good," McCormick answered, deciding quickly he wouldn't mention the moment of weirdness in the car just now.

"You know, we got as far as the driveway and then realized we were gonna have to use the Coyote because the truck is in impound. And the judge has this look on his face like he can't believe he's gonna trust his life in this thing." McCormick chuckled. "He was griping the whole way down there about how no grown man should be riding around in a full-size version of a Matchbox car." He shook his head as he took a moment to examine his handiwork with the cookies. He decided they needed more color, so he kept shaking as he continued talking.

"Anyway, then we get to the lot, and—" he broke off as the buzzer on the oven sounded. "I get the first one!"

Sarah had an indulgent smile on her face as she turned to pull the cookies from the oven. "Of course you do, but you know they need to cool a bit first. Go on with your story. And, really, I think those have enough sprinkles now."

"Okay." The young man surveyed the other sheets. "Then red for the candy canes," he said, and grabbed another shaker.

"So you got to the lot . . ." Sarah prompted.

"Oh, yeah. And, you know how usually I want to get these giant trees, and he's always saying, 'That one's too expensive, McCormick; that one won't even fit through the door, McCormick,' and stuff like that. But today, he goes all _It's a Wonderful Life_ on me or something, and wants the biggest tree on the lot. I keep tellin' him, 'Judge, we gotta get this thing home on the Coyote; be reasonable,' but you know reason has never been his strong suit.

"And Harvey, the guy down at the lot, he's laughing his a—, uh, his _head_ off, because he sees us do this routine every year, only now it's backwards. And the judge asks him, 'What, am I usually like some kind of Scrooge, or something?', all indignant like, and Harvey just keeps laughing and tells him, 'Yeah.'"

He glanced up at Sarah, who was grinning back at him. "Are they cool enough yet?"

"No. And that's enough red, too."

"If you say so." He set the shaker down reluctantly. "I like a lot of sprinkles, ya know."

Sarah just laughed. "So what did you get?" She handed him the sheet she had just finished cutting, and one last shaker. "Yellow for the stars, right?"

"Right." He started to work on the stars. "So we finally find a tree we can both agree on, and it's really a nice one. Noble fir. Good shape, no ugly spots. But still, it's like seven foot tall, and it's the _compromise_. It's only after Harvey wraps the thing up and drags it out to the Coyote to help us tie it on that Hardcase begins to see the problem.

"Now all I'm hearing is, 'Ya know, the PCH is kinda narrow. Maybe we shouldn't be trying to drag a tree this size home on this car. Might be kind of a hazard.'" McCormick looked up at Sarah, rueful resignation on his face. "Hadn't I been trying to tell him that for the past hour?" He glanced down at the stars. "I guess that's enough color on these. Can I have a cookie yet?"

"We'll both have one," Sarah answered. "You pour the milk." She checked on the batch still baking in the oven, then served the first group onto a plate and carried it to the table, where Mark had already placed the glasses of milk and paper plates.

"Oh, Santas," he grinned, as he reached out his hand. He bit into the cookie enthusiastically, then nodded in appreciation. "Your cookies are always the best, Sarah," he mumbled.

She blushed slightly, and laughed. "Honestly. I've never seen anyone make such a fuss over simple sugar cookies." She took a small bite of her own. "But I guess you finally made it home with the tree intact?"

He nodded. "But there was a lot of grumbling and fussing going on. I swear, once a donkey, always a donkey. That sure hasn't changed in the last fifteen years." He winked at her to prove he was speaking affectionately, though he figured the last time she thought otherwise was long, long ago.

"You shouldn't—" she began her typical remonstration, but a bellow from the front of the house interrupted her.

"Hey! You gonna help with this thing? I thought you were— Do I smell cookies?" The voice was getting closer. "Sarah's baking cookies?" Hardcastle popped into the doorway. "I get the first one." But then he looked sternly across the room as McCormick pushed the last tassel of Santa's hat into his mouth.

McCormick hesitated for a split-second, then grinned shamelessly and spoke the words that leaped into his mind. "Now, Judge, that wouldn't be normal at all."

"It wouldn't, huh?" Hardcastle grumbled.

"Nope. But I'll be glad to pour you a glass of milk, now that you're here."

"Mark was just telling me about your shopping trip," Sarah said to the judge.

"He was, was he? Did he get to the part yet where he threatened to put the tree inside the car and tie _me_ to the trunk?"

"Ah, no," Sarah replied, struggling not to laugh, "I don't think he'd gotten to that part."

McCormick was chuckling as he returned with the glass to set in front of Hardcastle. "Hey," he said to the older man, "you're the one that was worried about the dangerous overhang, and you _are_ much shorter than the tree." He looked back at the woman. "But we managed. I just had to drive a little slower than normal."

"That was _slow_?" Hardcastle exclaimed, and Sarah's grin got a little bigger.

"And anyway," the jurist went on, "I thought you were gonna get the stuff from the attic." He fixed the younger man with a severe stare and asked, "Just how normal is it that I send you to do a chore and find you in the kitchen eating my food?"

McCormick just laughed as he grabbed another cookie before heading out the door. "More than I'll ever admit to," he called back over his shoulder.

As soon as he was gone, Sarah lost the battle to control her laughter. "He's a good boy, Your Honor," she said.

"I guess," the judge said hesitantly. "Sure seems like he's involved in a lot around here. Like he knows my whole life."

The woman gave a very small shrug. "He's been here a long time, and he's helped you with a lot of things. Like I said, he's a good boy."

"I guess he seems okay," Hardcastle agreed reluctantly. "For an ex-con."

Sarah gave him a mildly disapproving look. "You've never really thought of him like that, Your Honor; not even at first."

"Really?" Hardcastle didn't seem particularly convinced.

"Really," Sarah assured him. "He had to convince the rest of us, but he never had to work that hard with you." She pushed the plate of cookies toward him. "Until now."

Hardcastle didn't reply to her comments, but simply reached for a cookie. "Oh, Santas," he said, almost to himself, and chewed thoughtfully.

00000

Finally, they were all three in the den, examining the bare tree standing in the corner. McCormick had quickly located the appropriate boxes in the attic and carried them downstairs, but that had been the easy part.

Then had come carrying the tree inside, followed by almost half an hour of arguing over the best spot to stand it. Sarah had ultimately sided with McCormick, and the young man had flashed an I-told-you-so look over at the judge. But Hardcastle had actually looked just a little bit annoyed, so McCormick had quickly wiped the smirk from his face and offered to change his vote to match the other man's, but Hardcastle had declined.

After all of that had come the fairly mild cussing that accompanied getting the tree properly straightened in the stand. Hardcastle had been the one doing the cussing since he was the one on the floor loosening the bolts in the stand every time McCormick said 'A little more to the right', or 'Just a smidge to the left', and he had finally shouted, "Would you just make up your damned mind?"

And McCormick had instantly shouted back, "It's not my fault you're not listening; you're moving it too much!" But the judge had raised up from under the tree and delivered a glare across the room that made the young man decide this was not the time to tell his friend that the arguing was normal, too. Besides, Hardcase did seem a bit crankier than usual, so 'normal' wouldn't have exactly been truthful, anyway.

Then Sarah had stepped in. "Let me direct him, Mark." Everyone had calmed down, the tree got straightened, and the momentary crisis passed.

Now they were sitting, looking at the empty tree, and McCormick wondered which of them should break the silence and get the decorating going. Finally, he said, "I'll start checking the lights. Sarah, why don't you put on some holiday music?" He glanced over at Hardcastle to see if the plan met with approval, but the man wasn't objecting, so he crossed the room and started rummaging through the boxes.

As he plugged the light strands in one by one, and replaced any bulb that was unlit, McCormick observed the man sitting quietly in the armchair. Hardcastle was barely even making conversation with Sarah, but was mostly just staring at the tree, apparently lost in private thoughts.

But McCormick understood. The holidays were always hard on Hardcastle, with memories of his family coming to the forefront of his thoughts each December. He could only imagine what it was like this year, when every thought and feeling that was real for Hardcastle said that Nancy and Tommy should be with him in this very room right now. It would be like the first holiday without them, all over again. Only McCormick thought it was probably worse, since the judge didn't actually remember their deaths, or any of the grieving and coping that would've somehow prepared him for that first Christmas alone.

Normally—_There's that word again,_ McCormick thought bitterly—he knew that he himself provided some comfort to Hardcastle during the difficult times. But he knew just as surely that was not the case this year. _Actually, I'm making things worse,_ he realized with sudden clarity, and he felt his heart gripped with a renewed pain. He lowered his head back to his task, blinking his eyes quickly to clear the mist that had suddenly settled there. _This is not about you,_ he reminded himself.

"You almost done with those lights, Mark?"

Surprised, McCormick looked up to find Hardcastle looking back at him with apparent interest on his face. _He's still trying,_ he thought sadly.

"Last strand," he said casually, determined to hold up his end of the charade. He held up the now glowing string of lights, and forced a grin. "Looks like it's a go."

Rising from their seats, they took up positions on opposite sides of the tree and passed the first string of lights around. Sarah directed their efforts—ensuring no dark spots remained—while Bing Crosby sang quietly in the background. By the time Bing got through 'Mele Kalikimaka', Hardcastle seemed to be relaxing just a bit, Mark was humming along with the record, and they had finished with the lights and were ready to move on to the ornaments.

"You gonna help, Sarah?" McCormick asked, opening a large box filled with smaller boxes of decorations.

"No, you two go ahead," the woman replied with a small smile. "I'll just supervise."

Hardcastle nodded his head slowly as he looked down at the box of decorations. "Yeah, that's what Nancy always said, too. She always left it up to us." He glanced over at McCormick, and there was no disguising the fact that it was a different young man he hoped to see, though he did try to avert his gaze quickly.

For his part, McCormick simply pretended not to notice, and placed an ornament on the tree, disregarding the ache inside. _It's not him; it's not the Hardcastle you know,_ he offered to himself in silent reassurance.

_What if it's the only Hardcastle you're ever gonna get?_ He ignored the idea and hung another decoration.

Hardcastle, though, was now looking thoughtfully at Sarah, and a small smile was beginning to form on his face.

"Sarah," he began, "what Nancy usually did while she was supervising was set up her Nativity scene. You know the one, right? Why don't you set it up while we're doing the tree? That would be great."

Hardcastle was smiling in earnest now as he turned back to face McCormick. "That'll be normal."

But McCormick just stared back at him, a frozen expression of uncertainty on his face, and Sarah hadn't moved.

"What?" Hardcastle demanded. "You didn't bring it down? It's in a brown box, about this big," he gestured vaguely with his hands, "has a separate lid on it."

"Um, Judge," McCormick answered hesitantly, "it's not up there."

"Of course it's up there," Hardcastle responded, "where else would I keep Christmas decorations but the attic? Even you couldn't have made me change that."

McCormick tried not to dwell on the faintly accusatory tone in that last statement as he tried to decide how to explain about the Nativity scene. He took a breath.

"It's not upstairs, Judge, because you don't have it anymore. You donated it to Lucy Atwater." He searched his memory, trying to recall if Hardcastle had ever said just how long he'd actually known the woman.

"Lucy Atwater?" Hardcastle questioned. "Started that kid's home a few years back?"

"Yeah," Mark answered, relieved, "Safe Harbor. But it's been more than twenty years now. Anyway, you donated them there."

Hardcastle turned to Sarah, seeking confirmation, and she nodded back. He turned back to McCormick.

"Why would I do that?" he demanded. "Did you have something to do with that, too?" The tone was more than slightly accusatory now.

"No," McCormick answered immediately. "I mean . . . what do you mean by that? I knew you did it. I don't know _why_ you did it. You certainly didn't discuss it with me first. I hadn't been here very long, only a few months. We were in the attic, and you saw them, and a few weeks later we helped Lucy with a problem, and then you gave her the figurines. I don't know what you think I would've had to do with it, or what else I can tell you about it, but that's what happened." The young man was working hard to hide the defensiveness and the hurt in his voice, but he wasn't certain he was succeeding.

"You hadn't put it out for years, Your Honor," Sarah interjected, "and you said you thought the kids would enjoy it."

"And they did," McCormick assured him. "Lucy says she's put it up every year since. It was a nice thing to do, Judge."

"The kids, huh?" Hardcastle said thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess Nancy would've liked that."

"I think so," Sarah agreed as she moved close to the judge. She placed a hand comfortingly on his arm for a moment, then smiled at him. "Now what do you say we decorate this tree?"

After a moment, Hardcastle nodded slowly, and he turned to the boxes. "Yeah, but you know we have to put up the special ornaments first." He lifted the flap on the nearest box.

And McCormick, still trying to decide exactly what Hardcastle had been insinuating moments earlier, but wanting only to help, answered without fully taking time to think.

"They're over here, Judge," he said, reaching into the box on his left. He turned back to Hardcastle, holding two small ornaments. "See? Your little gavel and my little racec—" He broke off, watching as the hopeful expression on Hardcastle's face was replaced by a cold and angry stare. He realized belatedly that the judge wouldn't even have remembered these particular ornaments, and he dropped his hands to his sides, wishing he could make the offending decorations disappear, himself along with them.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "I didn't—"

"Don't," Hardcastle interrupted coldly. "I don't want to hear it." He turned his attention back to the nearest box, pulling out the smaller boxes quickly—almost frantically—searching the contents. Sarah spoke quietly at his side.

"Judge Hardcastle, what is it you're looking for?"

"The special ornaments," he repeated, moving his search to the next box. When the woman didn't respond, he clarified.

"The rocking horse from Tom's first Christmas; the bride and groom with our wedding date on it; that hand-painted rose Nancy always loved; the plastic tree we got in that Christmas town the year we went to Colorado for vacation." He was almost through the last box now, his voice growing more urgent each minute. "The _special_ ones," he said one last time.

Sarah glanced over at Mark, as if to seek confirmation that the ornaments Hardcastle sought were not in any of the boxes in the den, but the young man was simply standing, frozen, a horrified expression on his face, pure misery shining in his eyes. She returned her attention to Hardcastle.

"Judge, I haven't seen those in a long—"

"No." Hardcastle faced her and grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly. "Don't tell me that, Sarah. I wouldn't have gotten rid of them; I wouldn't. No matter what." He stared down into her concerned eyes, and repeated, "I wouldn't have gotten rid of them."

"No," Sarah answered reassuringly, "you wouldn't. They're in the attic, somewhere. Maybe Mark could bring them down."

McCormick forced himself to move. "Yeah, Judge, I can find—"

"No!" Hardcastle whirled to face McCormick, his shout freezing the young man in place again. "_You_," he went on, jabbing a finger in McCormick's direction, "do not need to be involved in this; this is about my family. I've tried to play along with you this week, even though no one seems to be able to explain to me how it is that some convict has managed to come into my home and take over nearly every aspect of my life, including, apparently, wiping out every trace of Nancy and Tommy as if they were never here."

"Your Honor!" Sarah tried to intervene, but Hardcastle wouldn't be stopped.

"No, Sarah; this needs to be said." He continued railing at the other man. "There might be a lot I don't know right now, but I do know this: you are not my family. You wander around here, eating cookies, stringing lights, and singing Christmas carols like you actually belong here, like this is your home. But hear me: no matter how good of friends we're supposed to be, you are not my son. I had a son, and I sure as hell don't need someone around here trying to be some kind of replacement. And even if I did, it certainly wouldn't be someone like you.

"Now, I am going to go upstairs to my attic, and find my family ornaments, and then I'm going to hang them on my Christmas tree, because that's what's _really_ normal. After that, you are free to do what you want, but I think things are going to change around here for you. Is that clear?"

McCormick was taking a moment to respond, trying to ensure that he could maintain enough control to speak, but Hardcastle seemed displeased with the delay.

"I said, is that clear?"

"Yes," McCormick finally grated out, "it's clear." He drew in a shaky breath, and continued, his voice trembling. "But let me be clear about a couple of things, too.

"First, it's _ex_-convict. And I think this might be the first time in the entire time I've known you that you've truly used that word against me.

"And second, I'm not the one who wiped out your family; you took care of that all by yourself long before I ever got here. I know I'm not your son, and I never tried to be. All I _ever_ tried to be was your friend. This is also the first time you've ever made me feel I wasn't good enough to be either."

The words hung in silence. The two men stared at each other, cold defiance on both faces. Sarah stood apart from them, watching them both, hands clasped together in worry, looking as if she wanted to say something, but had no idea what it should be. Finally, after several terrible seconds, Hardcastle turned and left the room without another word.

Sarah watched after him sadly for a second, then turned to McCormick, a deep concern painted across her face. She started toward him, arms outstretched. "Mark . . ."

But the young man stepped back, pulling away from her comfort. "The attic might be hard for him, Sarah. Will you go be with him?"

Sarah looked at him wonderingly, then spoke gently. "He didn't mean it, you know."

"I know," McCormick lied. "But he really shouldn't be alone up there, especially the way he is right now. Sarah, please. I can't go."

"You'll be okay?" she asked.

McCormick nodded. "I'm just gonna go back to the gatehouse for the night. I'll see you tomorrow morning. You look after him tonight, okay?"

"You won't even try coming back for dinner later?"

"Ah, no. I think it's best if I give him some space."

Sarah nodded her acceptance. "I'll take care of him." Then she watched McCormick walk slowly from the room, still clutching the two tree decorations that were apparently no longer special enough.

00000

Hours later, when he was sure everyone would be sleeping, McCormick rose from the sofa in the gatehouse and placed the miniature gavel on the mantel next to the racecar. He had thought about taking it along, to serve as a reminder of why he was taking a giant step backward, back to a life that carried more risk now that he was a law student, and now that he truly was working without backup for the first time in a long time.

But he didn't really need any reminder beyond the dull ache that had settled in his heart, and, besides, he had once heard a wise man say that pockets should always be empty during this type of expedition. Nothing to accidentally leave behind for the cops to find. So he took one last look at the ornaments, then slipped on a jacket to complete the black on black ensemble. Then he opened the double-doors and stepped out into the cool night air.

He walked out onto the patio and stood for a moment, looking up at the clear December sky, marveling at the specks of light. He wasn't expecting the voice that came from the darkness.

"Can't sleep either?"

McCormick whirled around to see Sarah sitting quietly in one of the deck chairs.

"You scared me, Sarah. What are you doing out here?"

"More to the point, young man, what are you doing out here?"

Somehow, even in the near total darkness, McCormick was sure the woman could see that he was dressed in basic black. Worse, he was sure she understood why.

"Like you said," he answered, "I couldn't sleep. Did the judge find his ornaments?" He knew evasiveness wouldn't get him far with this woman, but it had to be worth a try. The long silence that followed made him think maybe he'd been wrong about that.

"He did," she finally said from the darkness. "He has a lot of stuff up there; it was emotional for him.

"But don't try to change the subject; we were talking about you and your sleep. And, it's the _reason_ you couldn't sleep that worries me. What are you planning?"

"I'm not— "

"Mark McCormick, are you really going to lie to me?"

The softly spoken accusation froze the words in his throat. He glanced away quickly. "No, ma'am," he whispered.

He felt, more than saw, her rise from her chair to move closer. "You used to look up at the stars a lot," Sarah said thoughtfully, "back when you first came here. I always wondered what you were thinking."

"I was thinking that they were beautiful," McCormick answered honestly. "And I was thinking I should never have taken them for granted. And how I would do _anything_ to never lose them again, even stay here and put up with the lunatic judge who sent me to prison."

"And tonight?" she prompted.

He hesitated, not wanting to answer, but knowing it was pointless to resist. Several beats passed before the words finally came. "Tonight, I was thinking that there are things worth giving them up for."

"He would disagree with that, you know."

McCormick snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, Sarah, he disagrees with me about everything." He shook his head. "But I don't care. No matter how he feels about me, I can't change how I feel about him. Someone did this to him, Sarah, and if there's a chance something in that building will help me figure out who, or why, or how, nothing is going to keep me away."

"And what if you get caught?" Sarah demanded harshly. "Or hurt? What will he do if something happens to you?"

"Before or after the party?" he asked sardonically.

"Don't take that tone with me, young man."

"Sorry. But, seriously, Sarah, he doesn't care what happens to me. He'll manage, whether I'm here or not. He would obviously prefer that I not be underfoot so much; he'd be glad to see me gone. And, anyway, he wouldn't be surprised, that's for sure. The man thinks I've got one foot back in Quentin, already. He figures that's where I belong."

"That's not fair, Mark," Sarah scolded.

"No, it's not," McCormick replied fervently, and there was no disguising the pain in his voice. "None of this is fair! But it's happening just the same, and even you can't deny it. You saw how he was tonight. It's not bad enough I'm not Tommy; I'm a _felon_ on top of that. I don't know where the guy is who believed that a single mistake shouldn't define an entire life, but apparently that guy didn't exist in 1971. He can't get past my record, Sarah. I never would've thought that was possible, but here it is. I'm not leaving him like this. I can't."

"And who's going to help him if you do end up back in jail?"

"I'm not gonna get caught," McCormick replied stubbornly. "I've had a lot of practice at this sort of thing."

But Sarah could be just as stubborn. "Some of that practice is what landed you here, if I remember correctly."

Mark almost smiled at that, but his determination didn't falter. "I already told you: some things are worth the risk. I need to know what's in that building, Sarah. Experience tells me that we're not gonna get a lot of answers just by asking, and that's if we knew what questions to ask, which we don't. I have to get him back, Sarah. Can't you understand that?"

"I'm not letting you do this, Mark; can you understand _that_? I'll tell Judge Hardcastle if I have to."

"And he'll call the cops," McCormick replied bitterly. "But you do what you need to do." He turned to stalk off the patio to the drive, but he heard the woman following him.

"Don't you walk away from me, young man," she called out angrily, and reached out to grab his arm with more force than he would've ever thought possible.

"Sarah—a-a-g-g-h!" He wrenched his arm away from her and cradled it to his body.

"What's wrong?" she cried, alarm immediately replacing her anger. "Mark?"

He shook his head roughly. "It's nothing," he said, but he couldn't quite hide the breathlessness of his answer, as the pain burned along his arm.

"Nonsense," Sarah said firmly. "Come into the light where I can see what's going on." She steered him back toward the gatehouse doors. Once inside, she found the light switch, and pulled him further into the living area.

McCormick had allowed his left hand to fall away from his right arm, trying to diminish the appearance of clutching it in pain, but the arm was still folded against his body, and he hadn't quite erased the grimace from his face.

"What happened to your arm?"

He shook his head again, but Sarah was already moving closer to him. "Let me see. Take this jacket off."

"Sarah, it's nothing, it's . . ." Her silent glare stopped his objections, and he allowed her to help support his arm while he removed the lightweight jacket that was so handy for after-hours work.

Under the jacket he wore only a short-sleeve tee shirt, making it impossible to hide the bandage that showed just the barest tinge of red.

"What happened?"

"I told you someone was shooting at us," McCormick said as lightly as possible.

"I assumed they missed," Sarah replied blandly. She was already busy examining the bandage, making sure it was applied to her satisfaction. "Men," she was muttering, "you'd think one of you might've mentioned it." She gently straightened the arm, reassuring herself that it was still in working condition and not gushing blood. "And you were carrying all those boxes from the attic. Honestly."

McCormick finally found a laugh. "Sarah, it's not gonna need to be amputated, or anything. I'm fine."

But Sarah didn't seem to see the humor in the situation. She released his arm, took a step back, and glared at him defiantly. "And you were planning on pulling your second-story job in this condition?"

McCormick laughed again, not sure whether the woman was more flabbergasted by the idea of him actually pulling the job, or being wounded while he did it.

"And if someone is already willing to go this far, don't you think you should be more concerned about being here at home in case they come back for the judge? Surely keeping him alive is more important than getting his memory back."

"Of course," Mark replied defensively, "but I can't be his bodyguard every minute of forever. If I could get his memory back, we'd have a better idea how to protect him. At least we'd know what we have to protect him _from_."

He was reaching for his jacket when Sarah spoke again, softly. "Mark, please. Whatever this case is, I couldn't stand it if it caused me to lose you both."

He turned back to her, anguish on his face. "Sarah, don't. I need to—"

"Monday," she interrupted. "Let it wait until Monday. Do this Lieutenant Harper's way." She looked up into his blue eyes. "Please."

McCormick stared at her silently, torn. Finally, he dropped his jacket back onto the nearest chair, and forced a smile he didn't quite feel.

"Can we at least go back to the house and have some more of those cookies and milk?"

The smile was a little more real when he saw the relief wash over Sarah's face just before she crossed back to him and threw her arms around his neck. She moved away quickly.

"Okay," she agreed in her no-nonsense tone. "But only if you do the dishes."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The stillness in the house seemed odd as Sarah made her way down the stairs. It had seldom been that way when she lived there. She remembered the judge had always been an early riser, up and out the door for early morning exercise, then off to work. Nancy Hardcastle had also been up and busy, not far behind him, waking Tommy for school, tending to her gardens, and the myriad of obligations to the many organizations she belonged to. There had never seemed to be enough hours in the day for either of them.

Even after his family members had passed on, the judge had continued his early morning regime, and, later, he bustled about getting McCormick ready for the day—usually loudly. She fit right in, being a morning person herself. Memories made the house come alive for her this morning and, as she stepped to the foyer, she smiled at the thoughts. The silence was marred by some noises coming from the den.

Peering through the door, she saw McCormick pushing a chair back where it belonged near the sofa. He paused, picking up a book when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Oh, morning, Sarah" he grinned sheepishly.

"Good morning, yourself. Have you been here all night?"

"Well, yeah. After we finished our snack, I had gone back to the gatehouse, but then decided you were probably right last night and I decided to pull another all-nighter."

"I was right about what? And how is your arm?" she asked as she came down the steps.

"Right about keeping watch over the house." He couldn't bring himself to say the judge. "It was a long, quiet, boring night."

He yawned and his grin became a bit wider as he put the book back on the shelf. "I did get a head start on some reading for next semester though."_ Not that there's going to be a next semester,_ he thought to himself. He was talking fast and moving, as if to beat a quick exit. He flexed his arm with the barest grimace "See? Nothing to worry about. I can lift fertilizer bags with the best of them."

"Well, I'm glad you made good use of your time then. And I'm _also_ glad that this 'all nighter' kept you indoors." Sarah put a hand on his good arm to slow him down. "I'll get some coffee going and breakfast while you freshen up. Then after breakfast, you can take a nap."

Looking her right in the eye, Mark said, "No thanks, I'm not hungry, and after yesterday, I'm sure the judge won't appreciate me being in the house—let alone finding out I was here all night."

"Mark," she started.

"No, Sarah, stop. Don't even say _anything_. At least I know how he really feels about me now and we don't have to tip toe around each other anymore." He was on the landing, his eyes darting towards the stairs. "I'm sorry to have gotten you stuck in this mess, too. Another bad idea, I guess." He looked at her sadly. "I'll be here to take you to the airport, but until then, I'm laying low in the gatehouse."

He didn't bother to add some of his other thoughts. In addition to reading, he had spent part of the night figuring on what stuff to start packing. He felt his time at Gull's Way had reached the end. He wasn't going to leave until this was all over, but he figured he had better be prepared for the inevitable. A quick, false smile, and with a quick glance again at the stairs, he was out of the door.

Sarah stood alone in the room. She spied something that Mark had left on the table. She picked it up and smiled. She smiled briefly as she paged through it, setting it down when she was done. Looking around the room, she stopped at the half-decorated tree in the corner. With the lights off, it seemed cold and lifeless, much like the atmosphere on the estate this morning. Sighing, she headed up the stairs toward the kitchen.

00000

It was after eight when the judge finally appeared in the kitchen. Sarah had spent the time leisurely reading the paper and enjoying the view with some coffee. Around seven-thirty, though, she began to worry about the judge sleeping so late.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said as he moved over to the coffee maker.

"Good morning, Your Honor," she answered, studying him. He didn't really appear rested, and his brow was furrowed together just a bit. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, I did. Well, I slept, anyway." The last words were muttered, barely audible.

Sarah immediately noticed that Hardcastle was avoiding direct eye contact. She got up from the table and went to the stove. Being in the middle of the kitchen would mean bumping into each other and she was hoping that would break the ice a bit. She had never felt discomfort like this with the man before.

"What would you like for breakfast?" she asked, taking out a frying pan. "Bacon and eggs? Or maybe some pancakes and sausage?"

"Sarah, don't trouble yourself. I'll just have coffee this morning. I'm not really that hungry." He took his cup over to the window and he looked out the ocean view. It didn't take much to notice his gaze wandered over and stayed at the gatehouse.

"You're sure?" she asked, "It's really no trouble at all. In fact, I kind of miss taking care of you and Mark. Even though I live so nearby my family now, it's not like having them in the house with me. It does get kind of lonely, especially in the mornings. Oh, Judge," she stammered, "I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

The judge couldn't ignore the slight emphasis of 'you and Mark' but he knew Sarah had forgotten that for _him,_ his family had only been gone a few days, a simple mistake. It didn't make the pain any easier.

"You know, I remember how you always had coffee ready for me and Nancy. You were always up the earliest." He continued looking out the window. "No, go right ahead and fix yourself whatever you want, but I'm really not hungry."

"Well, in that case, I guess I'm not doing any cooking this morning, as I've already had toast." Sarah put the pan back. This diversionary tactic didn't work. "But I _insist_ on putting together a good old Sunday dinner for you." As Hardcastle turned around she said again, _"I insist. _It's really no trouble; you already have everything. Sunday dinners were always my favorite to make when I was here. That was one meal Mark was never late for." Figuring then that if she kept talking about him, the judge was bound to say _something_.

Studying the cup in his hands for a few moments he said, "Sarah, I'm sorry you had to see and hear all of that yesterday. You're a good friend and you don't need to be in the middle of all this."

"Humph. You're the second person that said that to me today." With that she got his attention. "Don't look so surprised. Yes, Mark was here all night again, 'pulling another all nighter', as he put it. He was on his way out when I came down this morning. He apologized, too."

"He was here in the house all night?… He _apologized?" _

"Yes, even after all that happened yesterday, he didn't want you unguarded. And of course he did. He always does when he thinks he was wrong." Sarah shook her head. "Not that he was wrong," she added quietly. Then she continued, a little louder, "Honestly, I don't know what to do with either of you."

The judge turned his attention out the window again. There was a heavy silence in the room, not tense, just somber. The bright sunshine was a definite contrast to the silhouette of the dejected man standing there.

The old woman silently went to the table and sat down. She toyed with her own coffee, trying to think of what to say next.

"You know, for one of the first times in my life, I really don't know what to say or do to help the two of you." she started. "When Mark called, he didn't really tell me anything about what had happened. It was only when he picked me up that I found out."

"Another one of his _surprises;_ he seems to be good at those," the judge huffed out quietly.

"Yes, and he has pulled off some really wonderful ones over the years, too. The first time I got flowers from him on my birthday after I left, I started to cry; he's never forgotten since either." Sarah smiled. "And he's sent little cards or postcards from time to time out of the blue. Sometimes I think he misses me as much as I miss the both of you."

Hardcastle hung his head a bit. He _knew_ he had gone over the edge the day before, but Sarah's little recitation was just making him feel more guilty. He wasn't one to apologize easily, but his conscience wasn't letting go.

He rubbed his eyes and, blinking, sent his gaze back out toward the water. When he had told Sarah he slept, he wasn't going to admit that the dreams he'd had kept him tossing and turning till exhaustion finally won out. He saw many faces during the night. Some he recognized, and others he had no clue about. Some of the faces were reassuring, Nancy, Tommy, Frank, even Sarah. He wondered in his dreams about some of the faces. Were they people he knew now? Did he know them from years ago?

McCormick kept popping up in them too, over and over again, sometimes mixed in with Nancy and Tommy, sometimes all by himself. With all the talk yesterday of some of their escapades, he was left trying to decide what he thought were really dreams, and what might have been memories. But even in his dreams, he chastised himself. How could any of them have been recent memories? He didn't even know what happened the week before. He was truly beginning to question his sanity.

"Look, Sarah, I know you mean well and are just trying to help, but I think my little explosion yesterday shut off the entrance to the mineshaft." He turned and sat down at the table. "God, it's just that I miss them so much."

Sitting directly across from him now, she could see the misery etched into his face. Instinctively, she reached over and clasped his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Long gone was the propriety of employer/employee, now there was just the friendship that the man so desperately needed.

Hardcastle shot over a thin smile, grateful for the comfort. But the sadness remained.

Sarah returned the look with a gentle smile. "And you've been through this all once before, and you don't remember." He nodded and she continued, "The pain doesn't ever really go away totally, but it will get better. You made it through before. The memories of your family will remain in your heart forever. And, believe it or not, you did make new memories. I have complete faith that they will return, too." Giving his arm a firmer touch, she said, "There's a photo album on the coffee table in the den. Take a look. Maybe it will help a little this morning. I know it helped me."

With that, she rose and began walking toward the door. "I'm going to freshen up a bit so I can start cooking. I think once Mark finds out about dinner, he'll come. Reluctantly, probably, but he'll come. That is, if you want him here."

00000

There were pictures of Frank and him, fishing, and some of the Courthouse Racketeers, hamming it up for the camera. There were a few of him and Sarah, out in the rose garden, early summer, smiling. _He_ was smiling. Who'd taken that one?

And then there was Mark, sitting on the hood of that car, the Coyote, holding a basketball, and another on, on the same page—him and the kid, standing in front of the Corvette.

_The 'Vette was Tom's._

He turned the page quickly. More pictures of Mark. Another car, this one low and sleek and covered with sponsor's labels, and the man in a racing suit, with a helmet tucked casually under one arm. And there _he_ was again, in the next picture down, standing next to the younger man, and, if he'd had to guess, he would've had to say the expression on his own face was . . . _pride_.

Hardcastle closed the album and leaned back in his seat, swiveling slowly until he half faced the window. There had been no signs of life from the gatehouse. After what Sarah had told him about Mark standing guard duty again, he hoped the kid was taking a nap. Somehow, though, he doubted it.

_He deserves a chance._

_I can't help the way I feel. And when I pretend otherwise, he knows._

_How the hell does he know?_

The judge put his fingers to his temples and rubbed, closing his eyes, wishing he could will this whole nightmare away, and just hold on to the familiar—the smells from the kitchen and the sounds of Sarah puttering with the pots and pans.

_No, won't work; you'll open your eyes and they still won't be here. _Not only that, but nearly every sign of Tom's existence had been blotted out, or moved up into the dark recesses of the attic. _Why did you do that?_

He let out a sigh. What had that kid said to him yesterday? That he'd managed to wipe out the vestiges of his family all by himself? That seemed like the actions of a crazy man. And then to take in a felon, let him have the run of the place, that was crazy, too.

_He stayed up all night, keeping an eye on things. _

_Sure, you're his meal ticket._

_No, you couldn't have been that bad a judge of character, unless . . . you really did go crazy._

All the things Frank had said he'd done, all the stories that he and Sarah and Mark had been sharing over lunch yesterday—he stopped rubbing his temples and leaned forward, hunched over, elbows on his knees.

_This is madness_.

"Are you all right, Your Honor?" Sarah's gentle voice cut into this thought.

He sat up, opening his eyes, mastering his face. "Yes, Sarah," he said mildly. "I'm fine."

She looked as though she didn't believe him but said, "All right then, dinner will be ready in about ten minutes." She looked down at the album lying closed on the desk, then gave him a small smile, and the briefest of nods, before she turned and went back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

He looked toward the gatehouse again, then slowly got to his feet, feeling as though he had somehow aged thirty years, instead of merely fifteen. He trudged up the steps and down the hallway, and stood for a moment in the door to the dining room looking at the table—the usual three plates, but now it was him, Sarah, and—

He heard her voice in the kitchen, a one-sided conversation. She was using the phone, insisting, quietly but firmly, that dinner was ready and that she'd set places for three. The party on the other end was not being given much time to answer and Sarah did not appear to be accepting a simple 'no'. A moment later he heard her say good-bye and 'see you in a bit.'

Then she was standing in the opposite doorway, the one that led to the kitchen, holding a salad bowl and a basket of biscuits.

"Almost ready," she said. "I made that nice ham you had in the fridge. I hope you weren't saving it for Christmas."

The utterly blank look on his face was followed by a bemused, "I have no idea, Sarah; that was your department."

"I suppose I should have asked Mark, but you've still got three days to pick up something else." She said it so matter-of-factly, that Hardcastle almost felt as though everything had been set right again.

Then they both froze at the sound of the back door opening. Sarah put the food down quickly and wiped her hands on her apron, a quick, nervous gesture that the judge could not ever remember seeing her make before.

"I'll be right back with the potatoes and the ham," she ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Hardcastle standing alone, next to the table, feeling unsettled.

Voices again, this time both sides of the conversation, though kept low enough that only the feelings came through—Sarah still insistent, Mark anxious and unwilling. He listened for a moment, then took a few reluctant steps nearer to the kitchen door. He paused there again. He could not remember ever being this indecisive. Then he steeled himself to the task and stepped through the doorway.

Sarah had her hand on Mark's shoulder; his head was down, shaking a little from side-to-side. At his movement into the room, the kid glanced up. The emotion Hardcastle caught a glimpse of was very real—sadness, maybe some fear, but in a moment more it was gone, wiped clean, replaced with a mask that might have passed for indifference, if it had not been so studied.

"I'll carry the ham," Hardcastle spoke evenly, trying to imitate the matter-of-factness he'd heard from Sarah a few minutes earlier.

It worked. They were all in motion again, with Sarah taking the bowl of mashed potatoes and Mark picking up the green bean casserole. The momentum carried them all the way back to the dining room. Then they were taking their seats, the judge at the head of the table, Sarah on his left, and Mark slipping quietly into the chair on his right. It was patently evident that there was nothing voluntary about this, only that sitting down to dinner had become the path of least resistance.

Sarah did most of the serving. The judge carved the ham. Mark sat quietly, politely reserved. Once the food was dished up and sampled, there was a decent interval that consisted mostly of compliments to the cook. Sarah beamed gently.

After that the conversation stretched out a bit thin. Hardcastle thought maybe Sarah was having second thoughts about pressuring Mark into an appearance, but she soldiered on bravely.

"I was looking through that album in the den," she said; there was no forced cheerfulness, only kind interest. "Those pictures you took of the judge and me, by Nancy's roses, that was the first time I came back, after I went to stay with my sister." She smiled at the recollection. "And this place hadn't gone to rack and ruin in my absence."

"We managed," Mark replied, "but we missed you a lot." Then he caught himself, looking back down at his plate, as if he was preparing to be taken to task for using the 'we'.

Hardcastle said nothing for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, watching with dismay as the younger man controlled a flinch.

"Ah," the judge hesitated, "I was wondering why you left, Sarah."

She looked at him with mild surprise; perhaps this was one question he wasn't already supposed to know the answer to. She put down her fork, and cocked her head at him, with a small smile.

"Well, it was because of my sister; she was getting so frail. But, Your Honor, that wasn't something that happened all of a sudden." Her expression had gotten rather thoughtful, and now her face turned to take in the younger man, as well. "I don't think I really expected the rack and ruin. I wouldn't have been able to leave if I had. Oh, maybe I thought there'd be a little more dirty laundry in the hamper, and a dust bunny or two under the desk, but I would never have left you two alone if I didn't think you could take care of each other."

Hardcastle shifted his eyes from Sarah to Mark and caught the quietly frantic signals he was sending her. So far the young man was keeping the panic isolated to his eyes, the rest of his expression still a study in wary self-control. Sarah was smiling reassuringly.

"Well," Hardcastle tried to force a smile of his own; it felt almost broken. He retracted it, settling for something more neutral, "I guess you were right." He was addressing his ex-housekeeper, but his eyes never left Mark.

The wariness remained.

00000

The meal trudged onward, with Sarah acting as the interlocutor and Mark speaking only when spoken to. His answers were tense, quiet, and to the point.

At the end of another brief silence, toward the end of the meal, she said, "I know you'll think me foolish, young man, but I'm glad you don't race any more. When was the last time?"

The change of subject seemed to have taken both men by surprise. McCormick recovered first. He swallowed once and said, "About a year ago, a little less. It was a case. Before that it was the Arizona Modifieds."

"That's where those photos were taken, the ones in the album?"

Mark nodded.

"You won that race. I remember the judge writing me that." She nodded once in Hardcastle's direction.

"Sarah—" Mark's voice was low and entreating.

"He was very proud of you, and all I couldn't help but think was, 'Oh, no, now he's going to want to race all the time.'" She shook her head. "I was so relieved when I found out that you'd passed up some other offers."

"What happened?" The judge interjected. "I wouldn't let you?"

"There were cases," Mark said hesitantly. "And school . . . I didn't have enough time." He let a flash of defiance escape across his face, as if he was daring the older man to doubt him. Then that was gone, too. It was back to simple wariness. "I've given it up," he said with finality. "It's out of my system now."

"You're better off," Sarah said very gently.

"Yeah," the younger man's voice was dead flat, "that's what I thought, too."

00000

What had seemed interminable eventually came to an end. Mark was on his feet almost the moment Sarah began to stand.

"I'll take care of the dishes," he said.

"No," she replied firmly, "I'll do them. You've been up all night and you'll be driving me to the airport later on." She made a little shooing motion. "Both of you go sit in the den. Let things settle." She smiled. "I'll be along in a few minutes. I'll make us some coffee to go with the cookies. Or would you rather have milk, Mark?"

"Coffee's fine," he said, looking as if nothing at all was fine. He stayed on his feet as she gathered up the dishes and stacked them.

"Go on now," she finally insisted. "I won't be long."

The judge was studying the tablecloth a little ways in front of his plate. He let out a sigh and lumbered to his feet. Mark followed him silently out of the room, casting one last look over his shoulder at Sarah. She gave him an encouraging smile. He did not feel encouraged.

In the den, he took the same seat he'd occupied for most of the night. The photo album was no longer on the coffee table. Now it was sitting on the judge's desk. _Not good, that'll get him riled up again. _He wished to hell he'd never taken it down last night. It might have sat there unnoticed on the shelf for a long time.

Hardcastle seemed to vacillate between moving back behind the desk, nicely out of the way, but obviously right next to the offending album, and taking a seat nearer to Mark himself. _Tough choice_, McCormick thought, watching him compromise by standing over by the fireplace mantle. Mark wondered how long Sarah would string out the dish-doing for, and how long it would be before one of them would crack under this uneasy silence.

"What time is her flight out?" Hardcastle finally asked.

"Five o'clock," Mark replied. "I thought we'd better leave by three-thirty. Lots of traffic this time of year." _There, easy, you can do this. No problem at all._

"I was looking at your file again, last night."

Mark froze, felt his face draining white. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, in the way of talk, but this non sequitur was so unexpected that he almost thought he might not have heard correctly.

The judge ignored his silence and plowed ahead. "You're from New Jersey?"

Mark managed a nod.

"Not much in there about that. You have family there?"

"Not anymore," Mark replied bluntly.

This got a considered nod from the judge. McCormick fidgeted, waiting for the next question. None came, and he heard himself blurt out, "My mom's dead. My dad wasn't around. You've met him. He was nothing special." Mark gritted his teeth. "Look, Judge, I'll head back to the gatehouse and let you visit with Sarah. Just tell her I didn't feel good, or tell her . . . I dunno, tell her anything you want. You don't have to make small talk with me."

"I'm sorry."

McCormick froze again. Then his eyes narrowed down a bit. "'Sorry'?"

"Yeah," the judge nodded once, "sorry. I thought maybe it would help if I knew you a little better. Maybe I would understand why—"

"Why the hell you put up with me?" McCormick finished with an air of exasperation.

"No."

"I just don't know how," McCormick forged ahead over the judge's single word, "you could have forgotten every other damn thing about me and still remember how to push my buttons." He shook his head. "Okay, well, my dad cut out when I was five; my mom died when I was ten, and my uncle beat the crap out of me pretty steady on until I was old enough to get out and stay out. Is that enough detail for you?"

He'd kept his voice low and tight and sliver-sharp, daring the man standing in front of him to ask him anything else. But Hardcastle just stood there, nothing judgmental in his expression. McCormick found himself becoming angrier still.

"No," he said as harshly as he could. _'No' what?_ "No more." He was tired, exhausted; he was losing control. For a moment he felt profoundly lost, and then he slipped into a once familiar place—dark and cold, but very familiar. He was vaguely aware that the judge was saying something to him—asking him something. "What?" he said flatly.

"You okay?" Hardcastle was standing a little closer to him, looking down, frowning—a stranger's concern. The question was so absurd that Mark almost let out a laugh.

"I'm tired," he finally replied. "I really should go get some sleep before I take Sarah to the airport." He heard his own voice; it was calm, reasonable, persuasive.

"Yeah, maybe you should." Hardcastle was nodding, still looking a little worried.

Mark stood slowly, looking around at the room. It was already _the past_. He understood that now. He'd just have to get through the next couple of days, figure some things out, make some arrangements. Then it would be done.

He nodded once at the judge, and then trudged up the steps and out the door.

00000

Hardcastle moved behind the desk and into his chair, watching the younger man walk slowly down the drive toward the other building. Then he turned his head back sharply, at a sound from the doorway.

"Sarah," he heard himself; he sounded flustered. "Ah, Mark said he was tired, needed a nap."

Her expression was frankly disapproving. She moved over to the desk, putting down the tray and looking out the window for a brief moment. Then her gaze came back to the judge.

"Your Honor," she hesitated, "I was hoping—"

"I _tried_," Hardcastle protested. "I asked him about . . . _things_. He got angry."

Sarah sat herself down primly in the chair opposite the desk. "Did you try saying you were sorry?"

"I _did_," the judge said, with an air of belligerence that made Sarah shake her head.

"Not in _that_ tone, I hope," she looked at him archly.

"No, of course not. I was very polite."

"Oh, Judge," she sighed. "He's never even needed 'polite'." She shook her head again. "I never saw anyone who could take that much guff from you and still come back smiling." She cocked her head. "Not that you didn't take a fair amount from him, too, but I think the balance was always in his favor."

Hardcastle said nothing.

Sarah reached for a coffee cup and began to pour, still talking quietly. "Yesterday, what happened, that was very hurtful to him," she paused, handing him the cup. "He never tried to take Tom's place. Never. And he's right; you hid away everything that could remind you of your boy long before Mark showed up." Her eyes were locked on his.

"Why?" Hardcastle asked. It was almost a whisper. "Why the hell would I have done that, Sarah?"

Sarah sighed again. "I think . . . I think that maybe you thought you had driven Tom away, that he had joined the Marines because—" she interrupted herself, "It _wasn't_ true. All fathers and sons fight. And all children have to make their own way in the world. He didn't do it out of anger or fear. He told me he wanted you to be proud of him, but even that wasn't why he did it." She paused for a moment, as if she was searching for the right words, and then, "He did it because he was _Tom_."

There was a long moment of silence.

"I can't believe he's gone," Hardcastle finally said, in a voice that implied that he believed it all too well.

"I know," Sarah said quietly, "but he's been gone a long time; Nancy, too. But neither one of them would have wanted you to stop being alive yourself."

"I don't get any say in it, Sarah?" he looked up at her, sadly pensive.

"No," she said decisively, "not anymore. You've got other responsibilities." She cast a look in the direction of the gatehouse.

Hardcastle found his glance following hers, and then, "He's a grown man, Sarah. What the hell does he need from me?"

"Someone who needed him, a place to belong," she answered without a moment's hesitation. "I don't think he's had very much of that in his life. You gave him both those things, and he has repaid you many times over."

He sat there for a moment, considering everything, saying nothing.

Sarah got up slowly from her chair, still looking down at him. "Finish your coffee, Judge. Let him get a little rest." She reached out to pat his hand, comfortingly. "I think you will both muddle through. You always have."

00000

Mark showed up at the front door promptly at three-thirty, not looking much better than he had at dinner, but appearing grateful that Sarah had come out onto the front porch to meet him. A moment later, Frank pulled up, apologizing for being late. He took one look at Mark and his eyebrows rose as he shot a silent question in Sarah's direction. From her there was a brief shake of the head. McCormick seemed to be ignoring the whole interplay.

"He's inside," he said to Frank, flatly. "You're ready?" he asked Sarah.

She nodded, smiling softly up at him. "I've said my good-byes."

He'd pulled the Coyote up in the drive. Now he opened the door for her and helped her down into the seat before closing it and going around to the driver's side. All the reserve that he'd shown to the judge earlier was still in place.

He must've noticed her frown as he got into his own seat.

"I'm okay, Sarah. Don't look that way." He keyed the ignition and eased the car down the drive without another word.

"No, you're not," she tsked. "Neither is he." Now she had his attention. He shot her a quick glance.

"Sarah," he started slowly, "I don't suppose you could come back, stay with him for a while, after the holidays? Maybe your sister could come too. The weather's much nicer here than up there in January."

"You're giving up, then, Mark?"

"Sarah, there's nothing to give up on. There's nothing _there_. Worse yet, worse than nothing. He _hates_ me. He's angry."

"Of course he is. You are, too. Someone stole fifteen years of his mind. They stole your friend." Sarah threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "You both have every right to be angry," she tossed him a sideward glance that showed a little anger of her own. "Just _don't _be angry with each other. No matter how much he seems to want to hurt you, he's only lashing out at the unknown."

"What do you want me to do?" Mark asked wearily.

"Drop me off at the airport. Go home. Get some rest. Have a nice ham sandwich when you get up—make his with mustard and Swiss on rye—and then find out who did this to him."

Mark's smile was a pale imitation of the genuine article. "I was trying to do that last night, Sarah."

"You know what I mean, young man—a nice _legal_ investigation. Let Lieutenant Harper help."

"Okay," his smile was fond, "I'll do that. I promise." The smile faded again, as though that one gesture of optimism had cost him more than he had left to pay.

"I don't know if it will be all right, Mark," she said gently, "but I think it will get better."

00000

Harper knocked two quick raps on the front door as the Coyote was pulling away. He wasn't surprised to find Milt opening it, only a moment later, with a dangerous scowl on his face.

"You guys are getting pretty good at the handoff," he grumbled. "Hardly any wasted effort."

"Come on; it's only until tomorrow . . . if Neely says you're okay," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Why wouldn't he?" Hardcastle grumbled.

"I dunno; I'm not a doctor." Frank shrugged, following the older man into the den. "Sarah made cookies?" He smiled. "Now that's my kind of houseguest." He reached for one before he took his seat. His eyebrows went up as he noticed the other addition to the room. "Nice tree." He frowned a little. "Doesn't look quite, um, finished." He took a bite of the cookie.

"Looks okay with the lights on," the judge muttered defensively.

"Lemme guess," Frank put the other half of the cookie in his mouth, pondering thoughtfully for a moment. "You only had time to put the lights up before you chewed the kid out and sent him to his room."

"You're the goddamn detective," Hardcastle said grimly. "And I didn't _send_ him; he stalked out of here on his own last night."

"I'll bet." Frank let out a breath. "Well, no matter what, I can guarantee you it won't be the worst Christmas you two ever spent."

The judge's eyebrows rose a little in doubtful speculation.

"Let's see, ah, two years ago. I was out of town, at Claudia's folks. A guy named Cherney framed you for a murder. Nice frame too—Mark said they left the woman's body right here." He pointed down and toward the other side of the room. He paused for a moment and then said, "You know, I'll bet that's why he doesn't like to have the tree over there any more." He nodded to himself. "That white tape thing, it spooks everybody."

"I got framed for a woman's murder?" The judge was frowning impatiently.

"Yeah," Frank continued, "Christmas Eve, everybody out of town. Mark going crazy trying to figure out how to make bail, thinking you're gonna get yourself knifed in the county lock-up."

"I spent Christmas in the lock-up?"

"No, he hocked the Coyote. He got you _out_ on Christmas. Then you two busted Cherney for the murder."

There didn't seem to be a whole lot to say to this. The judge was staring at the unlit tree in the gathering gloom.

After a few more minutes, Frank asked, straightforwardly, "How bad did you rip into him yesterday?" He fielded Hardcastle's quick, questioning glance and said, "Well, he doesn't look too good today."

"It was bad enough." The judge frowned. "But Sarah's already given me the lecture. Twice."

"Yeah, but did you listen?"

Hardcastle nodded, saying nothing. A long moment later he added. "But it wasn't really about him."

"I know. I hope he knows, too."

00000

He'd seen Sarah safely onto the plane, waiting with her until it was time to board. She had chatted with him gently the whole time. He didn't want to tell her how hard it was becoming to talk about these things now, and, at any rate, the comfort of her voice was worth any amount of painful memory.

But now he was pulling up the drive at the estate and everything was slamming back up against him, like breakers after a storm. _Higher walls. More sandbags. You'll get through this._ He caught the glimmering of colored lights through the bushes. They'd turned on the Christmas lights.

He braked the car to a stop next to the fountain, just sitting for a minute. He couldn't stay like that for long, he knew. They had to already know he'd gotten back. He'd have to go up there, say hello and good-bye to Frank, and then goodnight to the judge. Simple. Five minutes, tops.

He pulled himself out of the car and walked reluctantly up the steps. As he'd expected, Frank was already opening the door.

"Saw her off?" he asked.

"On the plane, safe and sound," Mark replied quietly. "Thanks for coming by."

"No problem. He's in the den," Frank gestured with his chin.

"Did you eat?" Mark asked.

"Not yet, Claudia's keeping mine warm. Better shove off."

"Yeah," Mark looked wistfully over his shoulder at anywhere-but-in-there. He watched Frank slip out the door. He stepped out behind him, closing the door a little behind him. "I'll call you tomorrow, after the appointment."

Frank gave him a nod and a wave and then was climbing into his car.

Mark let out a breath. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Frank hadn't quizzed him about how things were going. He stepped inside again, listening for a moment. He took the last few steps to the den doorway, leaving his jacket on.

The judge was sitting quietly at his desk. The album had moved again, now it was open and lying a little to the judge's right. Hardcastle looked up at him.

"This one," he said mildly, "looks like it was taken in Washington."

Mark glanced down at the page. "Yeah, 'bout three years ago. You were named as a possible candidate for a vacancy on the Supreme Court."

"You're kidding."

"Dark horse candidate. Law and order," Mark shrugged.

Hardcastle stared down at the picture—the two of them, in full rig tuxes in a fancy reception hall. "So, I took you along?"

"No," Mark said very flatly. "You left me here. I took myself along. Good thing, too, because when I got there a guy named Arthur Huntley was trying to have a couple of his goons get you off the candidate's list permanently."

"Arthur Huntley?"

"Formerly Lonnie Vanatta."

This was met by a look of quick recognition. "Lonnie? We got _him_?"

Mark nodded.

"Well," Hardcastle nodded to himself. "That's good."

"And you took a pass on being a candidate for the Supreme Court, took yourself out of the running."

"Well, that had to be a long shot."

"Not after you showed up in D.C. and nailed Lonnie Vanatta between press interviews."

The judge mulled that one for a moment. "Then . . . _why_?"

McCormick shrugged. "Same reason I gave up racing, I guess."

"Come on," the judge said skeptically, "I was too busy to be a Supreme Court nominee?"

Mark nodded silently, studying his feet, hoping this line of questioning was pretty much over, because any other answers he gave would probably be met with even more disbelief. His eyes were drawn to the tree, now lit, though mostly bare in other respects. He was frowning down at a couple of packages lying underneath.

"Sarah left something," the judge said, answering the unasked question.

Mark stepped closer, looking at the other package alongside the one from Sarah. He could see the envelope more clearly, now—his own name written in the judge's scrawl.

"I found that one upstairs," Hardcastle said gruffly, "in my closet . . . I have no idea what it is."

Mark blinked a couple of times. "I know . . . I know that." He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket and took a deep breath. "Do you want a sandwich?"

"Ham? We got any Swiss in there?"

"Swiss and mustard and rye. Yeah."

"Then maybe you wanna finish decorating this tree after that?"

"Um," there was another swipe and a moment's hesitation. "Yeah, maybe."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He was on the sofa without quite remembering how he'd gotten there. Mark blinked again, taking in the direction of light through the den window. It was morning. Monday. He sat up abruptly. The shotgun was still propped against the chair, where he'd started out the night.

"Dammit."

He had a vague recollection of being handed a pillow and blanket and told to vacate the chair sometime during the night. That he had done so without protest, and without any conscious thought, was a pretty good indication of what shape he was in. He checked his watch—a little after nine.

Monday—the appointment with Neely. He winced, turning halfway over and trying to sit up; his arm still ached. He glanced back up at the tree, lights now unplugged, but bearing an adequate number of ornaments. They hadn't bothered with the Christmas music, but they'd managed to be _civil_.

Mark would settle for civil right now.

He heard some sounds from the direction of the kitchen and pulled himself to his feet. He found his shoes, ran his fingers through his hair, and put the shotgun away. The sounds were more distinct now—dishes being taken out. There was the smell of bacon and toast.

_That's . . . nice._

He frowned. Okay, he thought. There's a certain logic to this. The appointment with Neely had to be looming pretty large in Hardcastle's mind. Getting his keeper in the best possible frame of mind would be part of the strategy.

_Does he think I'd try to screw things up for him if I was angry?_

_He doesn't know you; he doesn't know what to think._

_And, anyway, wouldn't you be willing to do it, for his own good?_

Mark stared down into the murky depths of that thought for a moment, then took one of those silent vows that he knew would be easier to make than to keep. He squared his shoulders as he entered the kitchen. There were two plates on the table and Hardcastle draining the bacon.

"You shouldn't've let me fall asleep like that," Mark said, standing just inside the doorway and rubbing his neck.

"Why not?" Hardcastle glanced back at him. "I was laying awake in bed and you were asleep in the chair. What's the sense of that?"

McCormick frowned at this. "How come? I mean . . . how come you were awake?"

Hardcastle shrugged and made a vague gesture with this free hand. "Dunno, just was. Made breakfast," he said, with an expression that seemed to change the subject. "Took me a while to find everything."

"Smells good," Mark conceded, stepping over to the table—eggs, scrambled, bacon and toast. McCormick supposed Hardcastle might not have gotten much practice doing this, back when there were two women in the house.

"Looks good, too," he said, adding a little more congratulatory tone to his words.

The judge studied his own cooking with a slightly concerned eye. "Bacon's a little burnt."

"That's crisp," McCormick picked up a piece and put it on his plate. "That's how I like it." He took a second piece, as if to prove the point, then he looked resolutely down as he dished up for both of them from the pan of eggs. "Listen, Judge, what would you say if Sarah were to come back, after the holidays, you know, just to help you find things for a while?"

"I don't—"

"Need a keeper. I know." Mark shook his head once sharply. "She's not a keeper; she's a _house_keeper. You had one of those for years and years. What would be wrong with having one again?"

Hardcastle fidgeted a little. "I dunno." Then he got a stubborn look to his face. "I guess I must've thought I could do without one."

"Yeah," Mark said quietly, "but you had me." He smiled sadly. "We shared the chores . . . if you define the word 'share' very loosely," he added, after a moment's thought. "I did get you to hire another housekeeper once, but . . ." his face got a little vague, "it didn't work out."

There was no response. Mark looked up from his food to find the judge giving him a rather penetrating stare.

"I suppose you already asked her?" Hardcastle finally grumbled. "What did she say?"

"Oh . . . well," McCormick smiled again, "she told me to go home, take a nap, and then make us a couple of ham sandwiches. But she didn't say 'no', and I think if _you_ asked her . . ."

"What about her sister?"

Mark shrugged. "You've got a lot of room here, Judge. Heck, there's a whole second _house_." He gestured back over his shoulder, not sure how much more blunt he could be.

But the judge merely settled back into his seat, with that same unwavering, penetrating look. Finally came a non-specific 'hrmph'.

McCormick pushed his eggs around a bit, and took a few more bites. He wasn't all that hungry, but he didn't want to be misconstrued. After a while he made a show of checking his watch again, and then got to his feet, gathering up his plate and the empty pans.

"I'll take care of these, then I guess we better get ready to go—the appointment with Dr. Neely is at eleven."

Hardcastle muttered something under his breath. Mark froze where he stood and then turned slowly back to the older man.

"And it's your appointment, not mine. If you don't want to keep it, just say the word. If you _are_ going, I'd rather you still let me drive you."

"I don't see why I can't start driving again."

"Because," Mark frowned, turning away again and putting the dishes on the counter next to the sink, "you still don't know what the hell it was that made you crash the truck in the first place, that's why."

"You think this Neely guy is going to figure it out?"

"No," McCormick looked out the window, "I don't."

There was a moment's silence and then the judge spoke again, abruptly, "I think maybe I need to see a psychiatrist."

Mark froze again, not wanting to turn around until he'd settled the look on his face. He wasn't sure what the judge would make of it; surely there was disapproval written there. "I think . . ." he began, then he hesitated.

"What?" Hardcastle asked testily.

"I think if you have a hammer, all problems are nails." McCormick sighed. "At least that's been _my_ experience."

"You've had some experience?" the judge asked. "Being a nail, I mean?"

Mark's laugh was short and a little painful. "Yeah, Judge," he finally risked a glance over his shoulder. "You could say that. Anyway, for what it's worth, I don't think a psychiatrist is gonna figure this out, either."

"Well, maybe not," Hardcastle agreed, "but I still think maybe I should see one."

00000

They'd arrived at Dr. Neely's office with time to spare, despite Mark's apparent effort to drive at a moderate and sedate speed. Hardcastle thought he was making up for it with the pacing, now that they were in the waiting room itself.

The judge grabbed a copy of _Sports Illustrated_ off the end table and handed it to him. "Siddown, you're making me nervous." He pointed at a chair. The kid sat, but forward on the edge of the seat, managing to look even more twitchy sitting there than he had while he was on his feet.

"It's _my_ appointment, remember?" Hardcastle said gruffly. "What the hell are you so jumpy about?"

Mark shrugged; then he smiled a little lopsidedly. "So what's your strategy? You gonna try to fog him again? You've had a whole week to get up to speed on current events."

Hardcastle frowned for a second, but couldn't muster up the anger he'd felt in that hospital room when he'd been caught out the first time.

He gave a quick grunt and said, "Well, if that'd been my plan I woulda taken a cab here." Yet, somehow, he thought if he did try to plaster things over with Neely, the kid wouldn't be so quick to jump on it this time. "No, I figure I'll just be honest with him."

Before he could say anything else, the door to the office opened and a nurse holding a manila file announced his name. He got to his feet and darted a quick look at the younger man, who had enough worry on his face for the both of them.

"You comin'?" he asked. McCormick looked startled. "You think he'll believe _me_?" the judge said with a somewhat chagrined smile. "He's gonna want to talk to you, I figure." He fielded the kid's puzzled expression. "You're the keeper."

"The hell I am," Mark said with surprising vehemence, but he stood up and followed the judge into the inner room.

They'd barely settled themselves there, blood pressure and pulse taken and recorded, when Neely himself entered with a smile and a nod.

"Mr. Hardcastle," he pulled a small stool up next to the work counter and opened the folder, "how are you? Been a week already?"

The judge smiled thinly. He supposed for the neurologist it had been a quick and uneventful interval. He gave a nod. "Since the accident, yes. I've only been home five days."

Neely nodded once as well. "And how have things been going?" His glance up from the file included Mark. "Any change? Any improvement?"

"I know who the vice president is," Hardcastle said grimly. "Other than that, no, I don't think so."

Neely frowned and jotted a few words. "Any new problems? Headaches? Weakness? Any episodes of dizziness?"

"No, none of that. I lost my temper a couple of times." The judge glanced sideways at Mark who was studying the floor just in front of his feet with intensity.

Neely cocked his head at Mark. "Is that unusual?"

"Hell, no," Mark said with some feeling; then he softened it with a smile. "Standard operating procedure."

"Really?" Hardcastle's eyebrows had risen a bit.

"Yeah, well, maybe not quite like that, but you can be pretty prickly sometimes." Mark shrugged.

"Sarah said you took a lot of guff from me," Hardcastle said quietly.

Neely leaned forward on his stool. "Who's Sarah?"

"Ex-housekeeper," Mark filled in. "Came for a visit this weekend. She's only been gone a couple years; she knows the routine, and they know each other. I think she'll be able to help him fill in the gaps."

"No trouble retaining new information?" Neely asked.

"None," Mark assured him. "By this time next week he'll know the free-throw percentages for everybody in the Laker's starting lineup."

The judge gave the kid a hard stare.

"Ask him about driving," McCormick said to Hardcastle, ignoring the look.

"Driving?" Neely repeated, thoughtfully. "Well, that's hard to say, seeing as we're not sure of the etiology of your problem. But I would say if you have no further symptoms for, say, another week or so, I would okay you for short daytime trips, at least. I wouldn't advise driving if you are overly tired. No problem with anything else? Eating, sleeping?"

The judge cocked his head at his younger companion. "You wanna answer this one, too?"

Mark shook his head tightly and slouched back against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

Hardcastle turned back to Neely. "Appetite's okay."

"And the sleeping?" the doctor prodded.

"It's . . . pretty much okay." He shifted his eyes off Neely and onto a spot several hundred yards beyond the wall. "Do you . . . is there any idea of what might have happened? What caused this?" His eyes snapped back into focus on the doctor's face, which was an honest study in puzzlement.

"No, not really," Neely said. I can tell you a few things it most certainly isn't, but that's good news, because most of the things in _my_ department that cause amnesia are not really reversible."

"So, you think my problem's not something that falls under your department?" Hardcastle continued insistently.

Neely shook his head no. "Don't think so," he said. "Not likely, anyway."

"You said . . ." Hardcastle hesitated again, this time the look he cast at Mark was even more pointed, "something about seeing a psychiatrist."

"Yes." Neely looked rather surprised. "Dr. Westerfield, I mentioned your case to him; he was most interested. He said he's got some space on his schedule; there are a lot of patients away during the holidays. He wouldn't mind seeing you on short notice. He'd probably be able to fit you in tomorrow."

"You're not the average three-penny nail," Mark muttered under his breath. Hardcastle caught it and grimaced back at the kid.

Neely gave them both a puzzled glance and continued, "My receptionist can call over there and set up the appointment." Then he was rising; clearly the interview was at an end.

"That's all?" Mark asked. "What about—"

"He wants to know if I still need a keeper," Hardcastle interrupted sharply.

"_Judge_—"

"Gentlemen," Neely overrode them both with a quick hand motion. "All I can say is that the situation seems to be . . . _stable_, at least for now. And you, Mr. Hardcastle, appear to be relatively functional." The patient greeted this assessment with a grim smile. Neely forged on without a pause. "I can't predict what will happen next. You don't appear to be suffering from any known _neurologic_ syndrome. Therefore I can only advise based on your current condition.

"It wouldn't hurt to have someone around; a competent housekeeper would do, a friend would be a sensible idea. I can't insist on it, though." He nodded at the two men. "If there's any change, or anything new arises, I would be glad to reevaluate you." Then he offered a handshake to the judge, gathered up his file, and was gone.

Hardcastle looked back at the kid leaning up against the wall with his head hanging down.

"I can be out by tomorrow," Mark murmured. "Be easier if I had a couple days."

"The hell with that," the judge said firmly. "You've gotta drive me over to see this shrink guy tomorrow."

The younger man's head came up, fractionally. His eyes narrowed just a little. Some of the previous day's wariness was back, but it was losing a battle to some other, less cautious expression. _Might be hope,_ Hardcastle thought.

"If the shrink says you need a keeper," Mark suddenly broke out in a shameless grin, "it's not my damn fault. I'll just say I told you so."

00000

McCormick couldn't help it; the drive back up the PCH was not sedate. The third time he caught himself verging on making it exhilarating, he lightened up on the accelerator, and cast a sideward glance at the judge. No complaints yet. The man looked practically serene compared to earlier that morning.

One part of his mind was still counseling caution. _He just asked you to stick around and give him a ride to the shrink's office._ He had the address on a card in his pocket, the appointment was Tuesday at ten-thirty. And yet—

"For Pete's sake, it's not the Indy 500," Hardcastle groused mildly. "I'd like to get home in one piece."

"Sorry," Mark replied. "Bad habit." They were practically home.

_Home._

He pulled into the drive at a downright sensible speed, spotting a familiar sedan parked by the fountain as he pulled up.

"Frank?" the judge asked, looking at Mark with slightly raised eyebrows.

"Looks like it. I told him I'd call when we got back."

Hardcastle shrugged as they both climbed out. Frank was standing over by the bushes, near the place where the shooter had fired from on Friday night. He waved as he started walking back to them.

"How'd it go?"

"It went," the judge replied, with a certain satisfaction in his smile.

Mark felt the lieutenant's attention turn toward him. He saw the question that wasn't being asked and he wondered, briefly, just how bad he'd looked yesterday, that Frank thought he'd better head over today to do some damage control. He flashed a small smile, not the full-bore goofy grin that he felt bubbling to the surface inside, but something more sensible, intended to allay concern, without encouraging false hope.

"We're okay, Frank. He's still not supposed to drive, and Neely still doesn't have a clue. You got anything else?"

"Maybe," Frank said, "maybe so. Wanna go inside?"

00000

They'd retired to the den. Hardcastle took his usual spot behind the desk. Frank sat himself down opposite, and the kid, without any hesitation, slid a chair up beside Harper's.

"Did a little legwork this morning," Frank said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his notebook. "Thought I'd get a jump on things while you guys were keeping your appointment." He flashed a look at Milt who didn't appear to be bristling at the choice of pronouns. "Anyway, came up with a little background on this company, Symnetech. Turns out they've only been around about a year, under that name at least. The guy who founded it, his name's Clement Grieves, was originally the director of something called the Holgremsen Institute."

This information was met by two blank stares. Frank shrugged and forged ahead.

"Yeah, I never heard of it either. Holgremsen was a doc, very smart guy, Nobel Prize type. Started the Institute in the way back, right after the war. Did research. Died a couple of years ago.

"In comes Grieves, had worked for Holgremsen, took over the Institute. They got lucky, some of their research turned into a very exciting new drug. Got an article in the Wall Street Journal. It's an antidepressant. Big money in antidepressants these days. Not fully approved by the FDA yet," Frank went on, "but all the signs are good. That was a year and a half ago." Frank flipped a page in his notebook and spared another glance to his listeners. He had their full attention.

"So, Grieves reincorporates the Institute as a private corporation, that's Symnetech."

"Is that legal?" Mark turned toward the judge. "The Institute was a not-for-profit entity and now—"

Frank shrugged again. "There weren't any major assets, just the drug patent. The original seed money that Holgremsen used was gone, and they didn't have any big grants. And, anyway, Symnetech belongs to the Holgremsen estate."

Hardcastle frowned, "And _that_ belongs to . . .?"

"Half a dozen respectable charitable organizations get a share out of any proceeds. No living relatives."

Both the other men were frowning.

Mark spoke first, directing it to the judge. "An IPO?"

"Maybe, makes sense." Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. "You got anything on Symnetech having plans to go public?"

"Come on, Milt. I only had a couple of hours to come up with this." Frank flipped his notebook closed. "Anyway, give me a nice murder, a kidnapping. These corporate things," he shook his head, "you need an accountant, not a cop."

"There's something missing." Mark had leaned his head back on his chair and was studying the ceiling. "If they just do a stock offering, Grieves can't profit _that_ much. It's those respectable charities that are going to get the payday."

"He's got something on the backburner," the judge nodded.

"Something that'll run the price of the stock up, after the initial offering," Mark lifted his head and looked at the judge. "More research? A new drug, another patent?"

Hardcastle nodded. "And that tide'll float everybody's boats. As long as the charities are getting bigger checks, and all the investors are profiting, whose gonna look too closely at the CEO's chunk of stock. Heck, he's probably making it look all self-sacrificing, that he took a couple thousand nearly-worthless shares of a feel-good company instead of a salary."

"Yeah," Frank interjected, "but what has that got to do with . . . all this?" he waved his hand vaguely at Hardcastle. He watched the cold, wet blanket of reality settle back on the sparks of criminal speculation.

After a moment or two of grim silence, Mark said confidently, "Dunno, but I guess we'll find out. Anyway, it's a good start."

"Yeah, Frank," Hardcastle added. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Frank smiled, "Haul out a plate of those Christmas cookies. You two haven't eaten them all have you?"

"Not yet. We made a dent, though." Mark smiled as he got to his feet. "Coming right up."

McCormick was barely out of the room before Frank inched his chair in toward the desk and leaned forward. "Things are going a little better?"

The judge nodded again. "Guess so." His eyes passed over the recently vacated chair and then back to Frank. "He's pretty sharp."

"That he is," Frank smiled. "You taught him all he knows." There was a moment's hesitation. "Well, not _everything_. I think he picked up some of it in San Quentin."

The look he got from the judge at this was merely annoyed, not angry. "Yeah, well, he doesn't scare off too easy." Hardcastle's face had assumed a thoughtful look. "I like that."

"You'll like _him_," Frank spoke with assurance. "Just give him half a chance."

Milt was still pondering this when McCormick rounded the doorway, tray in hand, smiling to himself. "I shoulda asked you if you wanted a sandwich first. It's going on one o'clock." He set the tray down and divvied up the cups and plates. "We've got a lot of ham. I suppose I should—" He broke off, looking up suddenly at the judge, as if he'd just realized he was talking out loud.

"Should what?" the judge asked mildly.

"Should, um . . ." The kid sat down, smile gone. Frank watched a cool, neutral almost-wary look replace it. "Ah, Sarah was right; the ham was for Christmas. I suppose I should pick up something else. You can't just eat ham sandwiches all week," he added, with a touch of defensiveness.

"Well," Hardcastle continued on, still in the same mild tone, "I suppose we could, but it wouldn't be very _Christmasy_."

"No," Mark hesitated. "It wouldn't." He hesitated again. "I could pick up a turkey. A small one."

"Not too small," Hardcastle smiled. "Turkey sandwiches."

The kid's smile was tentative, but back. "And Swiss, and mayo, and more rye."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Frank shook his head, and finished his second cookie. "Okay, you two, now you know all the angles. Stay out of trouble and keep me posted. I better head back to the office."

McCormick got up and saw him out. When they got to the door Frank took his arm and guided him out, closing it slightly behind him. Then he asked the same question he'd asked the judge. This time the answer was more hesitant.

"Yeah," Mark finally answered, "a little better. He's been on his best behavior all day. I thought it was because of Neely." Mark paused, then leveled a look at Frank. "What the hell did you say to him?"

"Nothing," Frank smiled. "I think he figured it out all by himself."

"No," Mark said, looking down a little. "I think Sarah gave him a kick in the pants. She's good at that. One look from her . . ." He shook his head. "He'd do it for her, too."

"Well, long may it last," Frank said with feeling.

Mark lifted his head, eyes a little narrowed, his smile thin. "Yeah, but the important thing to keep remembering is, it might not."

Frank gave him a pat on the arm, but was too good a friend to offer a flat-out denial.

00000

Mark watched Frank walk to his car before he turned back to the door. He reached into the box for the mail almost reflexively, starting the once-through sort, to divide them into two groups, even before he'd gotten the door open. It was the second letter—one addressed to him—that made him freeze in his tracks, the door ajar.

_Damn_. He looked over his shoulder. Frank was already halfway down the drive. Mark looked back down at what was in his hand, then shoved it hastily into the inner pocket of his jacket. He composed his face, and stepped back into the house. He had no idea what Frank might, or might not, have explained to the judge about their financial arrangements, but he was sure as hell not going to go inside and hand the man a tuition bill right now.

He stepped back into the den and put the judge's part of the mail down on the edge of the desk, certain that his face was a brittle mask over a seething cauldron of 'what-the-hell-do-I-do-now?'

It didn't matter. The judge had his Rolodex out and was thumbing through it for something. He didn't even look up as he muttered, "Can't find Fawley's number. Must've changed. Tried to dial the old one and I got a pet store."

"Fawley?"

"My accountant, business manager, handled all of the brokerage accounts. If anybody'd have the low-down on an IPO, it'll be him. I'll just ask him to scope it out for me a little, like I was thinking of investing. He's always telling us to broaden the portfolio."

"Try the 'P's, Pickering. He's the only one I ever heard you mention. Fawley must've retired."

This time Hardcastle looked up, abruptly. "Or he died." The look on his face was resigned. "Pickering? I remember him. Skinny kid right out of school. Junior member of the firm."

"He's filled out a little. And I've never heard you complain about him."

Hardcastle's reply was mostly a grunt, as he flipped further back through the cards. "Here," he looked up again, concern written in his expression. "He's gonna ask me stuff and I'm not gonna know what the hell he's talking about."

"Nah," Mark sat back down. "It's right before a holiday. It's almost the end of the year. You'll be lucky if he even answers the phone. Just tell him what you want. Tell him you don't want to bother him about anything else, knowing how busy he is and all. He'll love you for it."

The judge nodded a little doubtfully but began to dial. Mark reached over and pointed out the speaker button.

The secretary was crisp but friendly. She seemed to recognize the judge's name and asked if he needed his account file pulled while he waited.

"No . . . no, just a quick question. That's all," Hardcastle assured her.

When Pickering came on a moment later, he was more jovial than harassed and Mark had a suspicion that the office Christmas party had started a bit early. The business manager gave Hardcastle's inquiry a moment's thought before he replied.

"Symnetech? Yeah, I heard something about it. It's a January launch. Already delayed once, I believe. I can't tout it very much. Might draw a little interest from investors who are looking to balance their portfolios _ethically_, but I wouldn't say it's all that common to have a company that does well _and_ does good."

"Why was it delayed?" Hardcastle asked, with only casual interest.

"Don't know. There can be lots of reasons. Might've just been a snafu with the paperwork. Hey, you'll be wanting a check drawn on the main account pretty soon? Do you want it made out to, um . . ." there was a brief sound of paper-thumbing, "McCormick directly, or to the bursar?"

Mark felt the cauldron come to a sudden and complete boil, and his forehead dropped into his hand. _Can I not catch a break, here, just once?_ He barely registered the judge's words.

". . . what we did last time." Hardcastle's tone was calm and even, as if he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Yeah," the accountant replied—the sound of a pen, notations being made. "It's easier that way. Just give me a total and I'll put it together for you. And, if you're interested in biochemicals, I'll let you know if I hear of any hot prospects. But not Symnetech."

There was an exchange of holiday greetings, and a promise to meet about tax papers after the beginning of the year. Then the dial tone, and Mark reached over to hit the speaker button again. He slumped back in his seat.

"Well, I guess I shoulda figured," the judge said flatly. It was hard to read what feeling might be behind the words.

McCormick kept his eyes focused on the edge of the desk where the damned phone sat. He waited for something else, some pointed comment from Hardcastle. Nothing more came.

Mark finally sat up a little straighter and said, "You are under no obligation—"

"Oh, but I kinda think I am," the judge interrupted him. "We must have some sort of arrangement."

Mark resisted the urge to tell Hardcastle it had been his idea, and, God knew, he didn't want to go into the _exact_ mechanism by which he had acquired his law school tuition from the judge; the man's sense of mental health was shaky enough as it was. So he settled for the vague and obscure.

"Strictly verbal. I don't even think there was a handshake involved. I won't hold you to it."

"Got the bill yet?" Hardcastle replied.

Mark sighed, and reached into his pocket to pull out the envelope. He handed it over reluctantly, watching the judge take the letter opener to it in an altogether familiar gesture. Then he saw the expression of mild astonishment on the man's face as he unfolded the sheet and studied it.

A low whistle and then, "Didn't cost that much when _I_ went there."

Mark couldn't help it; a smile crept onto his face. He tried to squelch it as the judge looked up and pinned him with a look.

"What?" the older man asked, appearing mildly suspicious that he'd been left out of a joke.

Mark blinked once. "I'm sorry; I couldn't help it. That's _exactly_ what you said last semester." He shook his head. "And then you called me 'a damn expensive hobby'."

"And what did _you _say?" Hardcastle asked curiously.

"I told you ''A's don't come cheap'," Mark replied levelly.

"Then there's textbooks," Hardcastle looked down, studying the bill again, "Things like that."

"You already paid for them. I wanted to get them before the semester break; get some of the reading out of the way over the holiday . . .sometimes things come up."

"Don't they though," Hardcastle replied dryly.

"_No_ obligation," Mark repeated himself, looking directly at the older man.

The judge nodded once, then reached forward for the phone and began to dial Pickering again.

00000

By the time Hardcastle had finished his additional brief business with the accountant, Mark had slipped out of the room. It was as though he was embarrassed about the whole thing, though Sarah and Frank had both intimated that the kid earned his keep. The judge frowned again, looking at the bill he'd just made arrangements to pay. He didn't _feel_ like he was being used.

He got up and strolled into the kitchen, where Mark was finishing the lunch arrangements with more bustle that it appeared to require. At least he had gotten to the point where he could recognize when the kid was nervous. He supposed that was a start. Of course it also meant that he was getting a lot of practice seeing it.

"Just about ready. Leftovers again," Mark apologized.

Hardcastle pulled out a chair and sat himself down. Mark put down a bowl of potato salad and took the other seat.

There was a moment of awkward silence and then McCormick took a breath and said, "Thank you. You didn't have to. I never expected you to do it the first time around."

The judge nodded and started filling his plate. He paused, spoon in hand, and gave the younger man a questioning glance.

"Did I seem like the sort of person who would go back on a deal?"

Mark blanched, then shook his head tightly. "God, no, just the opposite. When you made a deal, it stayed made."

Hardcastle nodded. The look got a little sharper. "And have I changed _that_ much?"

The answer didn't come quite as fast this time. The kid was avoiding his gaze. "Judge," he began slowly, "I don't know how to explain this, without making you mad."

"Just explain it," Hardcastle said, with some exasperation.

"See, you're already angry. That's what I mean. You remind me so much of the guy who sent me up for two years, for auto theft." Mark shook his head. "I used to pretend that I wasn't scared of that guy. I had a smart mouth. I joked about it. Sometimes I got angry myself. I guess I'm out of practice. I haven't had to be afraid of you for a long time now."

"Then why the hell did you stay here, if I'm such a scary guy?"

"Huh?" Mark sat back in his chair and finally looked the older man right in the eye. "I thought you read my file." Utter disbelief was written on his face. "I was looking at third-strike felony auto theft, on top of breaking and entering, flight to avoid arrest, and damage to police property. All of that while on parole. Whaddaya think? Fifteen years? Probably too conservative. I'm surprised I took as much time to make up my mind as I did." He shook his head. "You had me between a rock and a very hard place, Judge."

"So, you're saying I blackmailed you?"

"Nah," the kid's smile was a little tight, "blackmail's _illegal_. This was 'judicial stay'."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a little. Mark wasn't evading him anymore, the gaze he returned was steady and a little defiant.

"Hmph," the judge grunted. "So happens I read your file, and I took a look at the Cody one, too. Most of those original charges would've looked pretty thin after you nailed him for a double homicide. A smart guy like you must've figured that out."

"Yeah," McCormick nodded the concession. "I did figure that. But I was still on parole."

"But even _that_ ended a year ago. So, why did you stay?"

The gaze didn't waver. "Come on, Judge," he said; his smile was steady, too. "Do I seem like the kind of guy who would go back on a deal?"

Hardcastle though he should have seen it coming, it sounded so convincing when the kid said it. _Doesn't mean it's true, but it sounds true_. He shook his head once, as though to shag a little nagging doubt away, then he went back to filling up his plate.

They ate in silence but the tension seemed to have slackened some. Toward the end of the meal, the judge gave Mark another considered look.

"Whaddaya think, do we still need to mount a guard every night? Been three days now and no more action."

Mark pushed the last of his potato salad around on his plate, giving the question some thought. He finally shrugged. "Dunno, Judge, I'm kinda in the boat with Neely on this one. Don't know why it happened in the first place, so I can't be sure if it's gonna happen again. Maybe it occurred to them that it was a bad idea to raise suspicions by taking pot shots at ex-judges. Maybe they finally figured out that you aren't much threat to them if you haven't come at them in a week.

"But, still, I wouldn't want to be _casual _about it. It took them four days to get around to firing the first shot. A couple more days of being careful wouldn't hurt."

"Then you should go take a nap," Hardcastle looked down at his watch. "You can't stay up night and day. And we'll split the watch."

00000

Another day, another waiting room, another copy of _Sports Illustrated_. They were the only two there. This time the kid was sitting, almost sullenly, slouched back in his chair, leafing through the magazine with no apparent interest. He hadn't had much to say this morning, but managed to radiate silent disapproval all the way over.

"Dr. Westerfield will see you now, Mr. Hardcastle." The receptionist pointed him toward the office door.

Mark put the magazine down and started to rise, too, but slumped back at a gesture from the judge.

"Stay here a bit," Hardcastle said, trying not to make it sound unkind. He caught the questioning look from the younger man, quickly papered over with resignation.

"Your funeral," Mark muttered and then, "good luck," he added quickly, not quite able to keep the worry out of his voice.

"I just want to talk to the guy. See what he says," Hardcastle said with calm confidence intended to be reassuring. "It won't take too long."

"Yeah, three days, tops," McCormick grumbled. "Just remember, they can't hold you any longer than that without a hearing."

"Yeah," the judge smiled, "I know that." He gave the younger man a quick pat on the shoulder and was startled by the look he got in return—surprise, followed quickly by a shadow of wariness.

Hardcastle sighed and strode toward the office door, trying not to let the kid's fears infect him.

Westerfield was sitting behind a desk which reminded the judge of his own. He was a guy just north of middle age, balding, with a round, cheerful face. He was working in his shirtsleeves, the doctor's coat hanging on the coat rack near the door. The judge put aside his expectations of a pointy beard and glowering eyebrows with a faint sigh of relief.

"Mr. Hardcastle?" the doctor rose and extended a hand, "I'm Westerfield. Dr. Neely has told me about your . . . predicament."

The judge grimaced. "Well, that's a new word for it. And he told you it wasn't in his department, too, I suppose." Hardcastle was trying not to sound irritated about that. He figured irritated would just be more grist for the mill with Dr. Westerfield.

He was gestured to a chair. This wasn't going to be one of those doctor's visits where you took off your shirt and said 'ahh', but at least he hadn't seen a couch yet.

The judge let out a deep sigh. "Listen, Doc, I woke up last week and I was missing fifteen years; it's as simple as that. They don't think it's because I hit my head," he pointed to the rapidly fading bruise and the scabbed over scrape at his hairline, "and Neely says it wasn't some kind of stroke; he sent me here. So, Doc, am I crazy?""

Westerfield looked taken aback. Maybe he'd been a little more direct than the man was used to. Hardcastle couldn't help it. He'd had a week to think about the question he was asking. But a second later there was a smile and Hardcastle began to think he might be able to get along with this guy.

"First of all, Mr. Hardcastle, we don't really use the term 'crazy'. What Dr. Neely was trying to suggest, is that there didn't seem to be any structural problem with your brain, and no way to explain the functional loss—though, Lord knows, we don't really understand how memory works."

"If you don't understand it, then how the hell can you tell what is or isn't causing it?" the judge asked, with rising frustration.

"Because, we may not know _how_ it works, but we know the _way_ it works. There's no physiologic division between, say, a memory from adulthood that is ten years old, and one that is from sixteen years past. They're both long-term memory." Westerfield spread his hands and smiled again, "Now, you feel like you woke up, and fifteen years had simply never occurred, it was, um, 1971?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"A particular day in 1971?"

He frowned, then shook his head. "Frank asked me what day it was. I . . . didn't know. I looked out the window, there were people, down in the parking lot, wearing jackets. I thought it must be winter. Then he told me it was December, um, sixteenth."

"And what was the last thing you remember before that?" Westerfield prodded gently.

"Ah," Hardcastle made a face. "The continuance I granted. The Hefflin case."

"And that was—?"

"December. 1971. A terrible case. The father set fire to—" He paused abruptly and shook his head once. "It was pretty awful. The defense wanted more time for _another_ psychiatric evaluation. He was going with an insanity plea. Hell, that guy was as sane as you or—" he stopped again, looking chagrined. Then he shrugged. "Well, as sane as _you_, anyway."

"Sounds . . . memorable." Westerfield's smile was grim. "What day was that?"

Hardcastle froze. "Um, I don't know. I'd have to check my records. Not too long before Christmas, though. I remember I was hoping to get the jury seated before the holiday break."

"Do you remember what happened later that day?

"I came home." Hardcastle frowned.

"What did you have for dinner that night?"

"Ah," the frown deepened, "I dunno. Sarah . . . made something. I don't remember what it was."

"Of course not," Westerfield nodded. "Nobody remembers what they had for dinner fifteen years ago. The only reason you remember that moment was it probably carried a lot of heavy emotional content for you. It was a particularly horrible case, and an exceptionally aggravating ruling."

"And Frank had told me it was the middle of December, and I thought it was 1971 so . . . the Hefflin case." The judge's frown had been replaced by a look of acceptance.

"I think we ought to take a closer look at this interface between what you remember, and what you don't," Westerfield mused thoughtfully, "and see if it's immutable, or indefinite."

"All right," Hardcastle gave his a questioning look. "How?"

The 'how' part was basically Westerfield taking him through the late sixties and early seventies, mostly the things that everyone knew, but then dipping into the judge's own personal life at intervals. Back and forth, it reminded him of walking the grid at Gull's Way, Friday last, the same attention to detail that the kid had shown, looking for shreds of evidence.

"Doc," he stopped in mid-recollection, "there's something else I need to ask you about."

Westerfield looked up from his notes. "That's okay. I think we're just about done with this exercise." The doctor tapped his pen on his notebook. "Clearly there is no abrupt interface between what you remember and what you do not. This is exactly what I would expect; after all, none of us can remember ordinary events from fifteen years ago. We remember routines, and the very exceptional. You do seem to have an extraordinary memory for names, and details. I suppose that goes with your previous profession. But what you are actually dealing with is a sort of 'fade out' somewhere in late 1971. Does that year have any specific significance for you?"

The silence got very thick. Hardcastle finally cleared his throat and said, firmly. "No, not _that_ year."

Westerfield's left eyebrow went up a little.

"My son died, the next year. Frank, he's an old friend of mine, he told me. I went to see the grave. And my wife, Nancy, she died the year after that."

"Ah," Westerfield eased forward a little in his chair. "I can see what Neely was getting at." He tapped his pen again. "But you say you went to see your son's grave?"

"Nancy's, too," Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. "They're in Woodlawn."

"Voluntarily?"

"Ah?"

"This, um, Frank, he didn't force you to go. You _asked_ to see their graves?"

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "I dunno, it just didn't seem _real_. I'm not sure what I was thinking."

"You just wanted to be sure." Westerfield shrugged, "Like a person checks a road map when they think they might be lost."

"Lost," Hardcastle exhaled, "that's for sure."

"But people who have memory loss for psychological reasons, when they're in a fugue state, they don't _try_ to reorient themselves. The amnesia is a sort of protective device. They may even fight to hold on to it, in the face of overwhelming evidence. What year is it now?"

"1986," Hardcastle replied glumly.

"Is it? Do you really believe it is?"

"Hell, we drove by twenty gas stations on the way here, Doc. Have you _seen_ the price of gas?"

"There." Westerfield laughed. "If you want to be a regular patient of mine, you're going to have to come up with a conspiracy theory to explain that."

"I've got somebody waiting out there in your lobby who might be better than me at that."

Westerfield gave him a puzzled look.

"His name's Mark; he's staying with me. Neely insisted I couldn't stay by myself." Hardcastle shrugged. "Probably was right. Hell, I didn't believe _any_ of this at first . . . Anyway, he knows me. I mean, he knows what I put on a ham sandwich, he knows where I keep the extension cord for the Christmas tree. He says he's worked for me the past three years or so. He says we're _friends._"

"And you don't remember him at all?" Westerfield looked speculative. "That must be . . .disconcerting as hell."

"Wait, it gets better," Hardcastle grimaced. "He's an ex-con. I was a judge . . . I was the judge who _sentenced_ him." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Does that make any sense at all?"

The doctor appeared to ponder this for a moment before responding, "No, not much for him. Some pretty major cognitive dissonance there, I'll bet. I'd like to meet him."

"He doesn't like 'shrinks' very much."

Westerfield laughed.

"But," the judge hesitated again, "there's something else that's bothering me."

The psychiatrist merely nodded an encouragement to continue.

"People who have this 'fugue' thing, do they have trouble sleeping?"

"What sort of trouble are we talking about?"

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a little as he tried to construct a description that made sense. "It's dreams. Very vivid, some I understand. Some confuse the hell out of me."

"Like?"

"There's one, over and over. I'm outside; there's trees. I'm walking down a hill. There's lots of underbrush. I can't see very well, but I'm looking for someone, Tom, that's my son. I want to hurry, but I'm afraid of what I'm going to find when I get to the bottom; I'm afraid he's already dead. And then I wake up in a cold sweat." Hardcastle closed his eyes; he could see the way the sunlight had come through the trees. It was early morning. He jerked himself upright and opened his eyes with a start.

Westerfield was leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "No one knows why we dream, but elements of whatever is troubling us while we're awake seem to crop up frequently."

"But this is so _real_, like it happened," Hardcastle insisted. "And Tommy died nine thousand miles away. I wasn't there."

"Or, it's possible it's a real memory, and it confuses you because you're having to fill in some of the context. Have you asked anyone who knows you if such an event ever occurred?"

Hardcastle shook his head, looking unwilling. "Who should I ask?"

"Well, now you _are _acting like one of my fugue patients," Westerfield sighed. "How about this guy who knows where you keep the extension cords?"

00000

Mark had pretended to look at every page of the three-month-past issue of _Sports_ _Illustrated_. He'd gone back to pacing, with frequent breaks to study the slowly creeping hands of the waiting room clock. The receptionist hadn't paid much attention to this. She was used to seeing barely-controlled anxiety, he figured, and had probably already diagnosed him from where she sat. Nearly forty-five minutes had inched by when her phone rang. She spent a short moment with the receiver to her ear, and then looked up at him.

"Mr. McCormick?" she inquired politely. "You can go in, now." She pointed him toward the door.

He straightened himself, loosening his shoulders. He tried to figure out all the potential angles of damage control he might expect to encounter, while erasing all hints of anger from his face. The he opened the door and edged through.

Hardcastle was just sitting there, not looking particularly worked over. The guy on the other side of the desk was smiling, gesturing him to a chair. If there was bad news in the offing, he was doing a good job keeping it under wraps.

"Mr. Hardcastle tells me you aren't too fond of 'shrinks'."

Mark shot the judge an exasperated look and a quick, "Thanks." Hardcastle shrugged.

Westerfield stifled a chuckle. "Don't worry, Mr. McCormick, it's a common opinion. Your friend also tells me you have a theory about his current condition."

"I thought that's why he was coming to you," Mark grumbled.

"Well, good news there. I would have to say his memory loss doesn't show the typical hallmarks of a psychiatric disorder."

Mark sat up straighter. "Really? I mean . . . yeah, I know."

"And your theory?"

"I just think it's awfully convenient for someone, that he can't remember what the hell he went out to do last Monday night," Mark shook his head. "I hate convenience. It seems . . ."

"Unnatural?" Westerfield prodded.

"Yup. I have no idea how it could have been done, though," he looked at the doctor. "And I guess nobody else knows, either."

"How much time are we talking about, here?"

"A couple of hours, tops." McCormick looked at the man next to him. "We were in the den at ten o'clock. I left. I got the call from Frank at three a.m., and you had gotten from Malibu, to Glendale, to St. Mary's."

Westerfield rubbed his chin with his thumb. "A drug, something chemical, that would be the only way. And I'm not familiar with anything that works this way."

"Something that's still under development?" Mark asked. "Something a research lab might be working on?"

"Who knows," Westerfield shook his head. "It's possible."

Mark looked at the judge again. "Okay, I was wrong. We shoulda come here a week ago." Hardcastle smiled back at him thinly.

"The question is," Westerfield continued, "is the damage permanent, or reversible? Have synapses been destroyed, or is the access merely temporarily disconnected?"

Mark locked his gaze back on the doctor at the mention of the first possibility. "But it's been a week. If it was temporary, shouldn't he be recovering?"

"Depends," Westerfield replied. "There are all sorts of factors. Some connections may need to be reforged, or pathways around them found, or it may be a simple matter of reversible binding of a drug that's blocking certain receptors. It would help if we really knew how the memory system works."

"It would help if you guys would learn to think outside the box." Mark shot the doctor a quick look and then, in an aside to the judge, added, "Don't worry; I'm still glad we came. This is the first person who's even given it a _little_ thought."

Westerfield was still smiling. Mark felt himself relax just a little.

"And it may be that there has been the return of some of the interval memories," Westerfield took in both men with a glance. "And the difference between none and even one is critical here."

Mark found himself nodding.

"Tell him what you told me, Mr. Hardcastle. Maybe he can clarify things for us."

There was something in the judge's expression that brought all the tension back to McCormick's spine. Mark wanted to say 'Stop, wait a minute,' but Westerfield had said it was important and the guy had been the most rational person to take a look at the situation so far.

But a moment later, as the judge described the scene, in fits and starts, he realized his gut instinct had been absolutely right. Then they were both staring at him.

_Dammit, no more lying._

"It might have happened that way. I wasn't exactly there." _Okay, that was a lie._ He was pretty sure his face was giving it away. Westerfield was still staring; Mark hadn't worked up the nerve to snatch a glimpse of the judge's expression, but he knew the man hadn't moved.

"I . . . see," Westerfield murmured, and Mark knew if _he'd_ figured it out, then the judge, who'd known him for a whole week now, couldn't be very far behind.

_Spill it._

"It was about a year ago. You were looking into Charlie Clarkson's murder. It was a ravine; the slope led down from the road. I'm not sure exactly where it was. You could ask Frank. He knows. Or maybe it doesn't have anything to do with that . . ." He averted his eyes as the nervous words wound down. He couldn't bring himself to see what the other man was feeling right now. _Surprise, doubt, utter disbelief._

"We may need some further sessions," Westerfield said quietly. "Maybe for you, too, Mr. McCormick."

"No, thanks." Mark stood, decisively. "I can go wait down by the car."

He heard Westerfield murmuring, "I think we've covered plenty of ground today." And then he felt Hardcastle's hand on his sleeve, a loose grip just above the wrist.

"Hold up, kiddo. I'm coming, too."

00000

The ride home in the car began in uncanny silence. Mark drove with extreme attention to detail. Every passing minute made it that much harder to start a conversation.

_Conversation? What the hell are you going to say to the man? 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to become anything more than a hired gun. I didn't even know you'd had a son until a month after you hijacked my life.' _

But it was Hardcastle who made the opening gambit just before they hit the PCH.

"I suppose we'd better stop and get that turkey."

McCormick nodded. "I hope they have some that aren't frozen." He heard the words coming out very flat, very ordinarily.

"Frank said you almost died."

Mark almost jerked his head to the side at that unexpected segue. He finally found his voice "What all has Frank been telling you?"

"This and that," the judge replied vaguely. "Maybe that's why I dreamt about it," he added, in a very practical tone.

"Then maybe it's not really a memory."

"He didn't _describe_ it," Hardcastle protested. "He didn't say anything about a hill, or trees, or . . . anything."

"Okay," Mark backed off. "That's good then; you remember something."

"I want to call Frank. I want to see the place," he said, with sudden insistence.

McCormick chewed his lower lip for a moment and then said, "You're sure?" There was a definite nod from the older man. Then a pause, then Mark began again, a little more slowly. "You don't need to call Frank. I'm pretty sure I can find it. I know the road, anyway, and . . . I think I know about where it was."

He said nothing more until he found the turn-off and drove up into the hills. He'd never been back to the spot, but from Frank and Millie's descriptions, and his own hazy recollection, he thought he could find it. The judge himself had not talked about it much. He'd certainly never given an account of just how he'd managed to find the place the first time. That Mark had gotten from Millie as well. _God help us the conversation doesn't get around to that as well._

He snuck a glance sideward at the older man as he navigated the final curve, and saw a big rock off to the right. Millie had mentioned that. He pulled over to the curb and let out a heavy breath. The judge was already climbing out of the car and Mark dragged himself out to catch up. Hardcastle was walking like a man in a trance. McCormick moved forward, ready to take his arm if he started to fall.

And then he almost stumbled himself. He was looking over the brink, down a steep slope into a thickly wooded place. Despite the midday, winter sunlight, he couldn't see much at the bottom. _Dark and cold. He remembered it being cold. _Hardcastle was stepping down.

"Wait," Mark held out one hand, snagging his arm. "It's kinda steep. There's nothing there."

Hardcastle was still looking down. "The light's a little different," he murmured

"It was early in the morning."

"It's just like what I saw. Everything else is the same."

"No," McCormick said, still holding on to the arm firmly. "I'm up _here_." He heard the somewhat strained quality to his laugh. "We're not going down there. There's no reason to."

He saw the judge look up at him, studying his face suddenly. It was as though he had come back from a long way off.

"Okay," Hardcastle finally said reassuringly. Mark let loose of his sleeve. "We better go get that turkey."

"Right," Mark encouraged, taking one more quick look down into the darkness before he led the other man back to the car.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

McCormick was supposed to be napping. At least, that had been his excuse a few hours earlier when he had simply needed an escape from the weirdness that was slowly wearing on his last nerve.

Yesterday, things had remained a little awkward after their visit to Kelly's Curve. Hardcastle had been unusually quiet, and he himself hadn't really had much to say, either. The longest stretch of conversation had been in the grocery store, centered around the judge's typical grousing that canned cranberries just weren't the same as fresh.

So when they returned home, they had put away the groceries, then Mark had escaped to do some maintenance on the 'Vette before they plowed their way through a stilted dinner and an almost silent viewing of _Donovan's Reef_. Somehow, facing up to more evidence that he might actually care about McCormick seemed to have pushed Hardcastle even further away. So the judge had called it a night right after the movie, leaving Mark alone with his guard duty, though he had offered to take a turn standing watch.

Breakfast this morning hadn't been much better, though McCormick was willing to admit that part of that might've had to do more with his exhaustion than anything else. Hardcastle seemed to be making some effort to keep things on an even keel, but, damn; it shouldn't have to be so hard. He hated the uncertainty that seemed to radiate from every moment they spent together.

So, as soon as the morning dishes had been washed and put away, McCormick had rattled off a list of yard work that needed to be done, and Hardcastle hadn't objected. Then, later in the afternoon, he had run out of things to do and had stopped in to the kitchen for a cold drink. Hardcastle had offered to fix a quick bite to eat, but he had begged off, saying he needed to rest up before standing the overnight watch.

But when he had returned to the gatehouse, the first thing he had done after taking his shower was drag the judge's gift from under his bed to wrap it. He stared at the thing long and hard, thinking maybe he should just run down to the department store and settle for a shirt and tie instead. God only knew what the current version of Hardcastle was gonna think.

He tried to find some reassurance in the idea that it would be appreciated when Hardcastle finally got his memory back, but that thought was followed immediately by a gloomy caveat: _If he gets his memory back_. And then another: _And if I'm still around to see it._

_That's not fair_, he scolded himself. _He hasn't kicked you out yet._

_He's still feeling guilty. How long do you think he'll keep you here out of pity? And how long would you want him to?_

He thought about that for a moment. He decided a stronger man might be offended at the idea, maybe refuse to stay under those circumstances. But if that was strength, he knew it was a strength he didn't have. He would stay as long as Hardcastle would have him, because that was the only way to get _his_ judge back.

And then he smiled. "_Your_ judge," he said aloud, chuckling ruefully. "Better not ever let _him_ hear you say that."

He pulled the foil paper around the frame.

00000

McCormick was stretched out on the sofa, textbook in hand. It really wasn't his idea of a perfect Christmas Eve, but he still wasn't ready to head back to the main house and deal with a Hardcastle who didn't know how to deal with him.

And, though there was a part of him that felt more tired than he could ever remember, he hadn't been able to nap. He had dozed fitfully for about thirty minutes after wrapping the gift, but had given up after that, grabbed a book, and headed downstairs.

Originally, he had thought a text entitled _Evidentiary Procedures_ was going to be pretty dry reading, but it wasn't turning out too bad. And, about forty pages in, he had bolted straight up on the couch, surprised to find himself reading about a very familiar name.

Back in 1958, a relatively junior jurist had refused to allow testimony from a declared expert witness based on his interpretation of some obscure law on the books since 1911. The defense had objected, and the objections were duly noted, but there was no testimony, and the defendant lost. Appeals were filed, but Hardcastle's ruling was upheld all the way to the state Supreme Court.

"Livin' with a friggin' judicial celebrity," McCormick complained out loud. But only a blind man would've been able to miss the pride on his face as he flopped back down to continue reading.

He hadn't even noticed the slowly fading light until the knock on his door startled him away from the text. He had just swung his legs down to the floor when the second knock came. He shook his head in wonder as he called out, "Come in!"

"I was beginning to think you were ignoring me," the judge complained as he came lumbering through the door.

"Ah, no. Sorry." There really was no need in explaining that he hadn't realized Hardcastle would need to be invited in.

But even with a fairly substantial case of amnesia, Hardcastle was pretty sharp.

"Don't tell me: I don't knock, either."

McCormick grinned slightly. "It is your house," he allowed.

Hardcastle surveyed the gatehouse. "Really?" He wandered through the living area slowly, eyes scanning over everything, taking it all in.

"It's a little messy right now," McCormick began self-consciously, but Hardcastle waved him into silence.

"I'm guessing that a week ago I didn't care."

"Well, no; you cared."

"But I let it be," Hardcastle deducted.

McCormick just shrugged as he watched the older man pause at the mantle.

Hardcastle picked up a small, framed photo. Not exactly a candid, but not really posed. Just a snapshot of two . . . friends. Outside somewhere, a park maybe, though neither of them appeared dressed for the park. And what was that sign the kid was holding? He looked more closely.

"I ran for _mayor_?" he exclaimed.

Mark laughed. "Yeah. But you lost. Sorry."

Hardcastle studied the mantle a moment longer, examining a few of the personal items sitting there. He looked bemused as he returned the picture to its rightful place.

"Politics," he said, almost disdainfully. "What was I doing getting mixed up in that?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, Judge, but getting mixed up in things is what you do."

Hardcastle turned back to face the slightly impish expression. "I suppose that's how I got you?"

"Same kinda thing," McCormick agreed with a small smile, surprised to find that he was feeling much more comfortable than several hours earlier. _Home field advantage._

He watched the judge still trying to reconcile his realities, then spoke again.

"What're you doing over here, anyway, Judge? Did you need something?"

"Oh, yeah," Hardcastle replied. "Dinner. I was gonna tell you not to sleep through the night." He looked at the book in the young man's hands. "Though it doesn't really look like you were doing much napping."

McCormick gave a shrug. "A little. But there's a lot of material in the syllabus; just getting a bit of a start." He tapped the book as he set it aside. "You're in here, ya know."

Hardcastle looked at it quizzically. "Really?"

"Yep. Right there on page forty-three, California v. Lamley. You're famous."

"Lamley, huh? That was a pretty good decision, I thought." He paused for a moment, then added, "Wanna hear about it while you fix dinner?"

Grinning, McCormick rose from the sofa. "It's a date."

They hadn't taken too many steps away from the gatehouse when Hardcastle said, "Ya know, we better bring your book. Hafta make sure they got it all right, ya know."

McCormick just laughed and kept walking. "You know where it's at. I'm gonna start dinner."

The judge ducked back inside, got what he needed, and followed the kid to the main house.

00000

Dinnertime was almost comfortable. McCormick had started by declaring they were going to have a "faux feast" for Christmas Eve: relaxed and casual, but vaguely traditional and festive.

While Hardcastle had given him the details of Alexander Lamley and his cousin who was attempting to pass for an expert in the mental health field, McCormick set up a small folding table in the den, covered it with a bright red tablecloth, then chose a nice setting of china. Not the very best—they would save that for tomorrow—but not the indestructible everyday dishes, either. They were only doing leftover ham sandwiches again, but he was determined to make it a nice holiday. He returned to the kitchen to check on his side dishes. The salad was tossed and the potatoes au gratin were approaching golden brown. He gathered the ham, cheddar, sourdough, and butter and placed several sandwiches on the griddle.

Several minutes later he had the sandwiches sliced into neat triangles and stacked on a serving tray, and he carried them to the table to join the already waiting potatoes and salad.

"Sit down, Judge," he said, putting the sandwiches in place. "I'll be right back with the iced tea." He returned a moment later with the pitcher and glasses arranged on a service tray. Hardcastle had lowered the lights down a notch or two from full glare, and turned on the tree. And, for the finishing touch, _It's a Wonderful Life_ was just beginning, playing quietly in the background. The young man smiled.

"Looks nice, Judge."

"That's what I was gonna say," Hardcastle replied, returning the smile.

And then they were sitting, reaching for food, and getting plates filled. When the immediate bustle had subsided, Hardcastle looked across the table. "So," he began, "a Christmas to remember, huh?"

Mark hesitated for a split-second, then offered a lopsided grin. "We've had our share."

"Yeah. Frank told me I was in jail for one of 'em."

With a grimace, McCormick answered, "Well, not the whole holiday. And besides, didn't he tell you anything _good_?"

"Mm-mm," the judge hummed around his bite of potato, then swallowed. "As a matter of fact, he has." He returned to his meal without offering anything further.

They ate in silence for several minutes, and then the judge said, "So why don't you tell me _your_ version of our holidays?"

Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise, but answered without hesitation. "Last year was normal enough. We actually had a small dinner party Christmas Eve, then just hung out here Christmas day." He laughed suddenly. "In my stocking that year you gave me a parchment scroll lettered in perfect calligraphy. It was a word for word rendering of section 472."

Hardcastle looked up from his plate. "In the habit of forging official seals, are you?"

McCormick laughed again. "No, not really. But we'd been working a case just a couple of weeks earlier and I needed some information. I never really meant for you to find out. But, of course, you did, and you pestered me about it for a while." He took a moment to wonder why he wasn't more concerned about admitting this detail, then quickly decided he didn't care _why_ it was; he was just glad _that_ it was.

His face grew more serious. "The year before that was the bad one."

"Worse than this?" Hardcastle wondered aloud.

He didn't have to think about the answer. "You were an innocent man in jail, Judge. It doesn't get a whole lot worse than that." He could see the jurist contemplating all the possible meanings of his words, but he didn't give him time to reply.

"But the first year . . . now _that_ was a Christmas to remember."

"Big happenings, huh?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nah. It was just . . ." he paused to refill the tea glasses while he tried to figure out how to explain. "I hadn't been here all that long. Things were already getting a little worse for Sarah's sister, so she was away for almost the whole month. It was just you and me." He took another break to shovel a forkful of salad into his mouth.

_Get a grip, McCormick_, he thought furiously. _This is the easy part of the story, no laws being broken, or anything._ But he couldn't quite ignore the cautiousness that had drifted back into the forefront of his mind.

"Anyway," he finally continued, "it had only been a few months, but things were going okay. We were getting along pretty well." He let his eyes meet Hardcastle's.

"Honestly, Judge, I think it's still a toss-up as to which one of us was more surprised by that fact, but it was true. We had already been through a bunch of cases. You'd saved my life once; I had broken you out of a banana republic jail; we'd committed a felony together. You know, lots of bonding moments." He grinned a little at Hardcastle's disbelieving stare. "I told you; you get into things.

"But the holiday . . . well, let's just say that I didn't have very high hopes. I'd spent the last two Christmases behind bars." He gestured briefly toward the television. "And I already told you my childhood wasn't exactly Bedford Falls.

"But one day you said we should go get a tree, so we did. We argued a little over which one and then where we should put it—sound familiar?—but we had fun. _I_ had fun. We tried to make cookies one day, but they just didn't seem quite right, so Sarah sent us a care package from Frisco, and we sat right down and ate about two dozen cookies the afternoon it arrived. We went shopping for Christmas dinner fixin's." He shrugged. "I don't know. It was all just pretty normal."

McCormick suddenly returned his attention to putting more dressing on his salad. He was beginning to get the definite idea that he was saying too much, but Hardcastle hadn't interrupted. Really, the older man hadn't done anything other than eat slowly and listen attentively to every word, which was a little unnerving in its own right. He thought maybe he liked it better when the judge was interrupting all the time. _Can't tell him that, though._

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, almost hoping Hardcastle would say something—anything, really—then he returned to his tale.

"Normal for you, I mean," he clarified as he began speaking again. "For me, it was anything but. Then, on Christmas Eve, you decided we needed some new decorations, or something. I told you I didn't think Hallmark made first Christmas ornaments to fit our situation. Hell, they don't even make a _card_, and that's saying something." He chuckled slightly.

"Can you imagine? '_Holidays are even sweeter on parole. Season's Greetings to the man who sent me up._'" He was relieved to see Hardcastle grinning at the thought. And he was _not_ going to offer any more details about the decorations they'd ended up buying that night.

His smile took on the wistful quality of happy reminiscence as he spoke more earnestly. "The point, Judge, is that it was just really nice to feel like maybe I belonged somewhere. I sure as hell wasn't expecting it, but it was probably the best gift you could've given me." He paused, then added very quietly, "I don't think I ever thanked you."

And with those final words, McCormick picked up his sandwich and resumed his meal.

00000

Hardcastle watched the younger man thoughtfully for several long moments. He had asked the kid to talk about their past for a couple of different reasons. First, of course, he was curious. At this point, he still desperately wanted to understand what had happened to him in the last fifteen years that led him to the here and now. But he had decided he would settle for truly understanding the last three, since the idea of sharing his home—sharing his life—with a man that he had sentenced to prison was still—what had that shrink said?—_disconcerting as hell_. Yeah, that about pegged it.

But secondly, he'd been doing a lot of thinking about things Frank and Sarah had said to him. Both had told him that Mark would basically take whatever crap he dished out, and if he was honest with himself, he would admit that the kid certainly seemed to be demonstrating that propensity this past week. He might not understand this relationship, but he wasn't prepared to destroy it out of sheer stubbornness. He was doing his best to make peace, even if it was peace with a virtual stranger.

But it was also true that in the past week McCormick had started to feel just a bit less like a stranger. Not a friend, maybe, but not exactly a stranger anymore, either. In fact, once or twice, he thought he even saw an inkling of whatever it was that had led to friendship in the first place. Not that he had managed to hold on to that insight for very long, but he was trying.

And the insight he was gaining right now let him know that while Mark was also beginning to settle in to the current situation, the kid was a long way from comfortable. All he'd done was talk about a few holiday memories, and it had come out sounding like some kind of confession he was afraid would get him sent back to San Quentin. Honestly, he had never intended to cause that.

Hardcastle offered a small smile of his own. "Maybe I didn't expect a thank you," he suggested. "Or maybe I knew all along." He was as surprised as McCormick at the next words out of his mouth.

"Or maybe I didn't do it for you, but for me."

He watched the kid look up quickly, then immediately lower his eyes again, blinking them rapidly, and paying far too much attention to separating carrot shavings from lettuce.

Hardcastle knew immediately he had to step back. Whatever he might've felt before, he was in no position to offer much reassurance right now. His instinct was that Mark would understand.

"You said you broke me out of a banana republic jail? Frank said the murder was here."

"What?" McCormick seemed to be relieved at the change in topic, but not quite on track yet.

"When I was in jail for murder. I thought that was here?"

"Oh, yeah." McCormick smiled slightly. "That's true. Down there, it was drugs."

"Drugs?" Hardcastle was amazed. "I've been in jail _twice_?"

"Ah, well . . . there was also the, um, assault charge, and once you were trying to bail me out and things got a little mixed up for just a while. Oh, and the time we were arrested for auto theft when we tried to repossess the wrong car. But I think that might be all of them."

Hardcastle was staring mutely. He thought he was really going to have to get more details about this stuff later, but right now he was just glad to see some humor returned to the young man's eyes.

"That's all, huh?" he finally muttered. "If the point of bringing you here was some kind of rehabilitation, sounds like it might've taken a while to catch on. Maybe you were more of an influence on me than the other way around."

McCormick just grinned as he ate the last bite of his sandwich. "I think it might've been a mutual thing."

And somehow, in that moment, Hardcastle thought the kid was probably absolutely right.

00000

"Poor George Bailey," McCormick said, as he sat sprawled across the armchair, munching on a cookie.

The remnants of dinner had been carried out to the kitchen; Mark had announced he would do the actual clean up during guard duty. A plate of cookies had been carried back in to the den and placed on the end table between the two chairs where they sat watching the movie.

"Yeah," the judge agreed. "Made such a difference to so many people and never had a clue."

"Well, yeah," Mark replied slowly, "there's that. But what I really meant was, made such a difference to so many people, did all the right things for all his life, and still got to the point where things might be better off without him. It's a damn shame."

Hardcastle glanced over at him sternly. "Have you actually _seen_ the movie, Mark? I think maybe you've missed the point. No one would've been better off without him; that's what Clarence helps him see."

But McCormick shook his head. "Nope. Clarence tricked him. I mean, I know he _says_ he wishes he hadn't been born, but what he _meant_ was he wanted to be dead. And, yeah, it would've been bad for a lot of folks if George had never existed, but that's not the same thing as being bad if he dies now. Not that I think he shoulda killed himself," he went on quickly as Hardcastle turned a more direct glare his direction. "I'm just saying it's sad that he lived his whole life on the up and up and still ended up thinkin' dead was better than alive. Just kinda sucks, is all I'm sayin'. I feel bad for the guy."

Hardcastle shook his head. "That's an interesting perspective," he said slowly, and settled back into his chair.

Many minutes later, the judge spoke again. "It does kinda make you think, though, doesn't it?"

McCormick peered quizzically over his cup of eggnog. "Think about what?" he asked thickly.

"Life," Hardcastle said simply. "How you've lived, and if you've really made a difference." He spoke nonchalantly, but wondered if the kid would understand how deeply this question suddenly plagued him.

McCormick sat up a little straighter. "I don't think you have to worry about that, Judge."

Hardcastle felt a smile forming at the young man's response. Nothing dramatic, just a simple, direct statement, delivered with the kind of quiet assurance that only comes from an unshakable faith. A brief moment of total honesty, without concern of repercussion.

_See? I bet it was stuff like that. That's how he got to you._

Aloud, what he said was, "Even if I can't remember a lot of it?"

"I remember enough for both of us," McCormick answered seriously, "so trust me on this." Then he slouched back into his chair. "Besides," he continued in a lightly dismissive tone, "I told you I was gonna get your memory back, so just watch the movie, will ya?"

Unexpectedly reassured, Hardcastle grabbed a cookie and sat back to watch Clarence earn his wings.

00000

From his spot reclined across the chair, McCormick tried to discreetly observe the judge. Moments of self-doubt, however brief, were a rare thing for Milton Hardcastle, and Mark wasn't particularly fond of them. That was especially true now, when any attempt at pointing out some of the good that had been done would only be met with a blank stare. He couldn't even hold out his crown jewel of an argument—himself—because there was little guarantee that the guy in the other chair would consider that much of a success story.

But he vowed silently to himself that even if the judge never got his memory back, he'd make sure the man never doubted that he'd made a difference. Even if he had to go downstairs and bring out every file one by one and give him every detail of what had happened with each and every person. Even his own, if he had to. He'd spell it out for the guy, if that's what it took.

But he took a moment to wonder, _If I am who I am because of who he was, what happens to me if he never comes back?_

He breathed a noiseless sigh and took another sip of eggnog. Where was Clarence when you needed him?

00000

Hardcastle sat silently, watching the last tidbit of news on the evening report. He was wondering what he should say once it was over. He had decided that they were getting better at being together in very specific situations: dinner, movie, doctor's office, whatever. But they still seemed to be struggling with actually _getting_ to those situations.

_Yeah_, he decided, _that's it exactly. We aren't doing too well with the transitions. I wonder if that's what it was like the first time, too?_ He decided this wasn't the time to ask. The commercials had started and McCormick was beginning to gather up the snack dishes before he finally spoke.

"So, you wanna open the presents now?" He didn't think that was entirely what he had intended to say, but that's what came out. He thought the kid might drop the cookie plate.

"No! Uh, I mean, it's not really Christmas yet. We should wait until morning."

He watched the young man deliberately pull himself together.

"Besides," McCormick went on more calmly, even almost grinning, "you know Santa can't come until all little judges are asleep in their beds."

"And what about you?" Hardcastle demanded, following along into the kitchen.

McCormick just shrugged, but his grin was more confident now. "Santa always makes exceptions for ex-cons turned law students who have to stand guard over forgetful ex-judges."

"He does, huh?"

"Every time."

"Okay, then." Hardcastle turned back toward the hall. "Then I'm gonna head on up. Wake me in a few hours and I'll take a shift. Oh, and hey? Try not to shoot the guy as he comes down the chimney, okay?"

He could still hear the kid laughing as he climbed the stairs.

00000

McCormick was engrossed in his textbook again, shotgun at his side. The judge was probably right that they could safely do away with the nightly guard duty at this point, but he wasn't ready to risk Hardcastle's life on a 'probably'. He had cleaned up the kitchen, and put away the table and chairs they had used in the den. Then he had watched television until he thought if he saw one more variation of how life always turns out for the best, he might barf.

But his eyes were starting to blur, and he had passed the point where he was storing any type of information, so it was time to set the book aside. He swung his legs off the arm of the chair and pushed himself out of his seat. Stretching, he let his eyes roam the room, listened for anything out of the ordinary, then paced to the door to repeat the process in the entryway. Everything seemed secure. He pulled a hand across his eyes and stepped back down into the den.

Rather than moving back to the chair—where he was pretty sure he'd fall asleep almost instantly—he wandered across the room to check the water in the tree. He bent down to peek into the stand, but the water level was fine. But his eyes lingered a moment on the two gifts beneath the tree. They were almost taunting him, reminding him that he was gonna have to bite the bullet tomorrow morning.

_But he was okay tonight, don'tcha think?_ he asked himself.

_Not normal, though._

_Well . . . no. But okay._

He straightened slowly, trying to figure out exactly how to bridge the distance between okay and normal, when something on the tree caught his eye. His eyes blurred slightly again—though he didn't think it was the exhaustion this time—as he brushed his fingers across the tiny gavel hanging right next to the tiny red racecar.

00000

Hardcastle lay in the dark, listening to the sounds from downstairs. It had been eerily quiet when he had awoken just over an hour ago, but more recently there had been signs of life. He had thought about going downstairs himself—they really should share the night shift, and he should've known McCormick wouldn't actually wake him—but he knew the kid would just ask him why he was awake, and he didn't want to try and explain about the dreams.

The one from the cliff was most recognizable, though tonight it had played out in its entirety. No more was he searching frantically for the unknown; he was searching frantically for Mark. He could recognize the fear he was feeling, the anger. He wondered how much of that might be a real memory, and how much he might just be trying to desperately accept the things he was being led to believe.

The other dreams, though, had far less context. A baseball game. A racetrack. Even something he would've sworn was Clarence, Arkansas. Sometimes he could see Mark, sometimes he couldn't, but he was sure the kid was always there.

_How the hell does that happen? I don't even know him._

After another few minutes, he heard the front door open and close. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat listening. What was going on down there? He thought for a moment maybe McCormick had heard something outside, but no. Somehow, no matter what he might've heard, Hardcastle was pretty sure Mark would make his stand inside the house.

_Between the enemy and you,_ he thought, and very little had seemed so certain in the past week. But still . . .

_If you don't know him, how can you trust him?_

_Frank trusts him,_ another part of his mind spoke up. _And Sarah. They both left you here with him. And besides, I thought you were going to make peace?_

_I am making peace,_ he insisted to himself. _But I can't recreate what I don't even understand, much less remember. And I won't have my emotions hijacked like that._

_He's down there at four-thirty in the morning, holding a shotgun, prepared to_ _stand in the way of anything coming after you._

_Well, yeah,_ he conceded, _there is that. _He added to his growing list. _Probably that kinda crap let him get to you in the first place._

When he heard the key in the front lock, he decided to go down and see what the young man was up to. He pulled on his robe and was downstairs in the den in time to see McCormick place a gift under the tree.

Mark stood up quickly at the sound from the doorway. "Judge. Whatcha doin'?"

Hardcastle shrugged as he stepped down into the room. "That's what I was gonna ask you. I thought you were gonna wake me?"

McCormick grinned sheepishly. "There didn't seem much point in both of us staying up half the night. And I figured an old guy like you could use the sleep."

"Hmph." Hardcastle crossed the room and slid into one of the armchairs. "You've been reading some more, huh?" he asked, gesturing to the book on the end table.

McCormick nodded as he dropped into his own chair. "Might have some questions for you in another couple of chapters." He hesitated a second, then added, "If that's okay?"

The judge pulled a hand across his mouth. The kid was still on the edge of nervousness. That might be easier to tolerate if it weren't so clearly _wrong_, though he wondered what made him think he could accurately read the young man. _You still don't know him._

_Yeah, but there's that shotgun. And it's four-thirty in the morning._

"Sure it's okay," he answered. "A's don't come cheap, remember? Let's make sure we're gettin' 'em."

McCormick grinned slightly. "Deal."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, and Hardcastle thought the kid seemed mostly okay with that.

He gave more thought to his next suggestion this time around, but he still thought it might've come out a bit more anxious than he intended.

"Ya know, technically, it's Christmas now. You wanna open your present yet?"

"You just want to know what you got me," Mark teased lightly.

"Maybe," the judge admitted with a small smile.

But McCormick shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait until morning. The _real_ morning, I mean." He cast a concerned look over Hardcastle. "Besides, I wanted you to get a decent night's sleep. Why don't you go on back to bed? I've got this under control."

Hardcastle examined the young man closely, recognizing a change of subject when he heard one. _Still nervous about something._ "Well I'm awake now," he said, "not much point in going back to bed. Maybe there's something on TV? Seems like an awful lot of channels on that satellite contraption."

Mark grinned, though it seemed a little forced. "Well, yeah, but trust me; you can have 150 channels and still have nothing to watch."

"Maybe we could open Sarah's gift?" Hardcastle suggested, and he wondered if it had ever been this difficult for the two of them to be alone in a room together.

_Only when he's keeping something from you._ He almost physically jolted at the thought that burst into his mind.

_What the hell does that mean?_ He didn't know, but he recognized the truth of the idea in his soul.

But the young man was smiling in earnest now, and rising to bring Sarah's box out from under the tree. And with the same kind of intuitive reasoning, he knew immediately that McCormick would never withhold anything of true importance. Frank and Sarah couldn't both be that wrong. Hell, he hoped _he_ couldn't have been that wrong.

"You wanna open it?" McCormick asked, holding out the red and green package.

Hardcastle pulled himself out of his musings. "No, you go ahead."

Mark plopped back down into his chair. "Okay, I'll open it, but I'll do it like you do." And he began to meticulously lift each strip of tape, taking care not to rip the paper in the process.

Hardcastle couldn't help but laugh at the over-dramatized impersonation. "Just open the thing," he growled.

McCormick pulled the paper away and they stared silently for several seconds at the gray box. Then their eyes met, and they both began to laugh.

00000

In the den at Gull's Way, it almost felt like home. At least, that's what Hardcastle thought, though he had mostly come to grips with the idea that he didn't really know what home had been like lately.

Still, there were Christmas songs playing softly from the radio, a tree blinking in the corner, and laughter in the air. Surely that was pretty close to home.

"Okay, then," he said as he pulled pegs from the game board, "it's best three outta five."

In the hour or so since they had opened Sarah's gift, he had realized McCormick was quite the Battleship shark, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun being beaten at anything.

_Hah!_ he thought, _you can't remember. That's the understatement of the year._

"I thought you weren't any good at this," he grumbled as he began placing his ships again.

McCormick grinned and cocked an eyebrow. "Did I say that?"

"Well . . . what about 'I always wanted one of these when I was a kid'? You did say that, didn't you?"

Mark nodded. "Yep. Never got one, though." He carefully placed a submarine. "But I was president of the Battleship club at Quentin."

"There's no such thing," Hardcastle accused with a laugh.

"Well, no," McCormick admitted. "But I woulda joined if there was one. Anything to pass the time."

"Yeah. The notes in your file said you joined a lot of groups."

The tone had been strictly conversational, but the comment still earned him a sharp look as the kid finally stopped messing with the boats. The judge gave a half-hearted shrug.

"What? I was reading through it again today while you were doing the yard work."

"If you're bored, I could loan you a book," McCormick offered dryly, "or bring you up to speed on the latest in hedge trimming techniques."

"I'm making do," Hardcastle answered lightly. Then, more seriously, "I'm just trying to understand."

McCormick tried not to sigh. "Understand what, Judge?" He made a quick gesture indicating the two of them. "This? 'Cuz I don't think you're gonna find the answer in there."

"Why not?"

"I told you; because that's not me anymore. I'm not sure it ever really was . . . at least not completely."

"But something has to be there," Hardcastle insisted, his tone growing more urgent. "Isn't that how I knew the first time?"

McCormick sat back in his chair, looking at the judge with an honest expression of confusion. "Hell, I don't know about _that_, Judge. I used to spend a lot of time myself wondering why you picked me. But the closest I ever got to an answer was that you thought it was the best thing for both of us."

He paused, then added, "For what it's worth, I think you were right about that." Then he went back to setting up his board.

Hardcastle watched the other man for a moment, then asked, "You know what I really don't get?"

"I thought we were going three out of five," McCormick complained, but Hardcastle ignored the comment.

"What I really don't get is you. It's hard enough to see my side of this: taking in a convicted felon, a guy I sent up, no less. I would've thought the tension would be impossible, that you would hate me so much it wouldn't have been worth my trouble to put up with. And that's just my side of it."

McCormick was looking directly at Hardcastle now, clearly interested in the idea in spite of himself.

"But you," the jurist continued, "you're the one that would've been doing the hating. I mean, your transcript says you proclaimed your innocence pretty vocally."

"Doesn't everybody?" McCormick asked in a low tone.

Hardcastle shook his head once. "What I mean is, how do you move past the blame? I think that's the part I really don't get. How could I possibly expect it, and how could you actually do it? Doesn't seem possible."

McCormick stiffened. "So, what? You're saying you think I'm runnin' some kind of scam, or something?"

Hardcastle shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "No. And don't be gettin' mad again. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm trying to understand who you are." He was almost pleading for understanding now.

"God, you're living in my house, hanging out with my friends, staying up all night protecting me. I just don't know how that happens, unless—" he broke off suddenly, considering.

When he didn't go on, McCormick prompted him. "Unless what, Judge?" and his voice carried a weariness that hadn't been there fifteen minutes earlier.

"Unless you didn't really have anything to blame me for. You seem like a reasonably bright guy, Mark, like someone who accepts responsibility for himself." Hardcastle gazed directly across the desk as the idea clicked fully into place. "Were you guilty?"

"I was convicted," McCormick answered woodenly, not averting his gaze.

"That's not what I asked."

"You saw the transcript. You're the great legal mind. You figure it out."

"I can't figure out my _own_ part in this," the judge countered gruffly, "much less yours. I'm asking you to help me understand."

McCormick dialed back the attitude. "Look, Judge, it was a long time ago. Can't we just—"

"No, McCormick, I can't 'just' anything!" Hardcastle cried suddenly, slapping his palm down on the desktop. "I don't know why you can't see that. My life is a hole, but somehow, you're a huge part of it, and I don't understand why. It doesn't fit with anything I do know. The me I feel like would never have gone for it; it doesn't make sense to me. Help me understand. Answer my question. Were you guilty?"

"Yes."

McCormick had breathed out the word so quietly, in such contrast to Hardcastle's tortured tirade, that it stopped the judge cold. He stared across at the young face, studying the expression. McCormick seemed surprised by his own response, and there was an uncertain defiance in his eyes, as if he was preparing a defense against something, but wasn't yet sure what it would be.

_He's never admitted that before,_ Hardcastle thought with a sudden certainty. _Never confessed to the me he knows, but to help the me he doesn't . . . _He would never be able to explain the feeling that gripped his heart with that realization. He was so caught up in it, that he almost didn't notice McCormick was speaking again.

"At least from a strictly legal perspective."

Hardcastle felt a small smile forming, and he thought maybe he was about to hear the more typical version of McCormick's story. "It was a court of law. Is there another perspective?"

McCormick seemed surprised. "Of course there's another perspective. There's always another perspective. In this case, right and wrong. That should always matter, even in a court of law. Hell, _especially_ in a court of law."

"So you were guilty, but it wasn't right that you were convicted? Do I have that straight?"

McCormick rolled his eyes. "Do I really have to spell this out? Jeez. Okay, but don't think you're gonna distract me. You'll still never find my carrier."

He winked as he went back to arranging the plastic boats, and Hardcastle filed away the idea that the kid was more comfortable when the Serious Stuff was carefully buried beneath the laughter.

"The Porsche I was convicted of stealing," McCormick began, "really did belong to me. I bought it, lock, stock, and barrel. But the ditzy girl I was living with at the time could get cheaper insurance, so I had the car registered in her name. Not the brightest move, I'll grant you, but not exactly criminal."

"Unless you look too closely at the fraud statutes," Hardcastle interjected blandly.

The kid flashed him a grin of concession before continuing with his story.

"But it was my car, Judge; anyone would've said so. Hell, I even paid for the cheap insurance.

"But when Melinda and I split, she called the cops and reported it stolen; the pink slip had her name on it, and here we are.

"And, yeah; I blamed you for a long time. Maybe I even hated you. I sure _wanted_ to hate you. I wanted it to be somebody else's fault. You were handy. But you know when I think I had to start changing my mind?"

"Ah . . . no."

McCormick chuckled. "Oh, well, you probably didn't know that a couple of weeks ago, either, so don't worry.

"Anyway, the night you brought me home, when you came to my cell carrying Cody's file, ready to put him at the top of the to-do list; I couldn't believe it. I think I knew then I might've been at least a little bit wrong about you, even if I wasn't ready to admit it yet."

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "I sort of had the impression you didn't really like my deal." He felt as if McCormick's explanation might be raising more questions than it was answering.

"Well, yeah, but let me see if I can paint a picture for you, Judge. A few hours earlier, I'd been standing in your chambers, yelling in your face, dumping peanuts all over your desk . . . really, I had a pretty all around bad attitude. But you ignored all that, and believed my rantings enough to pull Cody's file and find out more for yourself. I'll tell you the truth, Hardcase; that surprised the hell out of me. It's not what I would've ever expected from the guy I'd had in my head for a couple of years."

McCormick shrugged. "Not that it was all smooth sailing from there, but how do you keep hating the guy who can see past the attitude, past the convictions, past the file?"

Hardcastle didn't miss the subtle accusation in the words. "So it was just a simple matter of forgive and forget?"

"I didn't say it was simple," McCormick contradicted. He leaned back again and gazed intently at the judge. "But here's what I know now: From the letter of the law, I was guilty. But it wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He took a breath. "But it also wasn't your fault."

After thinking for a moment, Hardcastle said, "So what you're saying is that we _both_ learned to see past the file."

A smile spread slowly across McCormick's face, and Hardcastle watched a tension that he hadn't even fully recognized slip from the young man. "Yeah, Judge, I think that's it. And that's why your answers aren't gonna be there, because the answers came later. But you figured it out once, Hardcase, and you will again." His eyes were twinkling as he moved closer to the desk again, pulling his game board toward him.

"In the meantime . . . H8."

Laughing, and feeling that he had at least a few more pieces of the puzzle, Hardcastle said, "Miss."

00000

McCormick pulled the shirt over his head, grateful that he had taken Hardcastle's advice to get a few hours sleep. Battleship had lasted until almost seven; it had taken all five games to finally beat the judge. He thought maybe their conversation last night had distracted him more than he'd realized.

He ran a hand through hair still damp from the shower, and tried to decide if he'd done more harm or good with his late night confession, such as it was. He thought maybe this current Hardcastle might appreciate the candor, assuming he actually believed anything he'd said. And assuming he didn't decide that what really should've happened was a fraud conviction with a sentence about twice as long as what he actually got.

But he also thought that when things were back to normal, _his_ Hardcastle—a label that never failed to amuse him—might never let him live it down. Still, he knew he would gladly put up with anything the judge threw at him, if only 'normal' would really come back to stay.

But as he headed out the door and started back toward the main house, he at least felt a little better about the looming gift exchange. Even if things had been a bit strained, the last few days had still seemed to dispel much of Hardcastle's anger toward him, and it no longer seemed likely that his present would be met with anger or eviction. Not that it would receive the same appreciation it might've in other circumstances, but there was at least some relief in the idea that even _this_ judge would probably recognize its sincerity. He could definitely live with that.

He stepped up onto the front porch and paused, making a quick calculation and still hating it, even though he was becoming more accustomed to these minor adjustments. But he figured he had managed it once before, he could do it again, so he knocked twice, waited a couple of seconds, and opened the door.

"Hey, Hardcase," he called as he stepped into the entryway.

"In the kitchen, Mark."

McCormick shook his head ruefully as he headed toward the voice. Too bad Santa didn't bring a reprieve from this whole name thing. He briefly recalled that in a moment of total frustration last night, Hardcastle had resorted to the last name, but that wasn't a situation he was exactly keen to recreate. With a mental shrug, he walked into the kitchen. If that was the worst of his problems, he could handle it.

"Merry Christmas," he greeted with a smile.

Hardcastle turned from the refrigerator. "You too, Mark. Did you get some rest?"

McCormick nodded. "I think you were right about that. I'm just about too old for this all night business." Then he grinned. "But I still gotta keep up with you."

"Coffee?" the judge offered, as he poured a cup for himself.

"Nah. It's Christmas; I'm having eggnog. And a cookie."

Hardcastle grinned. "Decisions should always be so simple."

"Yep. Did you want me to fix some breakfast?"

"I had some toast while you were napping. But go ahead, if you're hungry."

McCormick shook his head. "It'll be time for lunch before you know it. I'll save my appetite for that." He moved to pour a glass of eggnog, and, just as he said, grabbed a cookie.

The judge grinned. "That seems a little rich for so early in the morning."

"Early?" McCormick raised an eyebrow. "It's after ten. Usually by this time you've done your free throws, we've had breakfast, read some files, and been involved in at least one high-speed chase. I don't pay much attention to time anymore; I just eat what I want, when I want." He thought the snappy comebacks were sounding a little forced these days, but he bit off half his cookie, and smiled around the crumbs, trying to keep up the illusion.

"You know, one of these days you're really going to have to give me some of the details about what goes on around here. It sure seems like we keep busy."

"It's never boring," McCormick agreed. He snatched up a few more cookies and headed out of the room. "C'mon; I wanna see what's on TV. There's only one bowl game today, but maybe I'll still get to see a little bit of a parade."

Hardcastle grabbed a couple of cookies of his own to go with his coffee and followed the kid into the den. "Which bowl?" he asked as he came down the steps.

"Sun Bowl," McCormick replied, already flipping channels. "Tide and the Huskies, but not until later this afternoon." He punched the power button. "Damn. I missed 'em already." He turned to find Hardcastle staring at him quizzically, and he gave a little shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed. "Silly, I know, but I like the parades."

"Well, sorry you missed 'em. Settle for a present instead?"

McCormick grinned, and forced down the apprehension. _It's going to be fine._

"Absolutely. Presents it is. Want me to get them?"

"Go ahead," Hardcastle answered, slipping into his favorite chair.

McCormick set his glass and cookies on the end table and moved to the tree. He collected the two packages carefully, then returned and handed one to Hardcastle before dropping into his own chair with the other. They sat silently for a moment, and he began to wonder if they had already lost what little bit of easiness they had found over Battleship. But then the judge spoke.

"You go first; neither one of us know what's in that one."

McCormick smiled, and began to rip the paper.

00000

Hardcastle watched silently as McCormick began to open his package. He thought he had made some progress with the whole idea of making peace, but the kid still seemed to be working awfully hard at appearing comfortable.

_Forcing him into that confession last night probably didn't help,_ he admitted to himself. But he couldn't deny that the conversation had gone a long way toward relieving some of his own lingering doubts. True, McCormick had managed to make clear that he still believed the conviction was something of a sham, but he also seemed to understand his own responsibility in the situation. _And, he doesn't blame you anymore._ Yeah, that part had certainly seemed sincere.

He found himself smiling as the kid ripped through the last strip of paper with gusto, then paused to lift the box and shake it a time or two, listening carefully.

"I did that, too," he admitted, "but I couldn't figure it out."

With a small smile, McCormick placed the box back on his lap, then lifted the lid and set it aside.

Hardcastle found himself leaning forward as the young man removed the tissue paper, somehow suddenly believing that his choice of gifts might tell him a lot about his actual state of mind concerning Mark McCormick.

"Wow." That was all that was said, but Hardcastle thought it wasn't a bad first response.

McCormick slowly lifted the briefcase from the box, and looked it over appreciatively. He took in the deep cognac color of the leather, ran his fingers over the brass fittings, and lingered at the simple yet elegant monogram plate.

Hardcastle was still watching silently, gauging a reaction, as Mark undid the clasps, lifted the flap, and looked inside the deep case. Finally he said, "I hope it's what you wanted."

McCormick glanced over quickly. "It's great, Judge." He smiled, and went back to looking at the different pockets. After a moment, he looked back at the older man. "It's just what a real lawyer would have. Thanks."

Hardcastle recognized the quiet pride in McCormick's response, and he thought he must've chosen well. _And maybe not just the gift,_ he thought, though he was quick to remind himself that he still didn't really know the young man.

But . . . _Maybe I'm starting to like what I've seen._

And then McCormick set the briefcase aside. "Okay, it's your turn."

The judge thought that didn't sound quite as lighthearted as the kid had probably intended, but he didn't question it. Instead, he held the gift up to his chest.

"I don't think it's a tie," he quipped. That forced a slight grin from the other man.

"No," McCormick agreed. "I haven't met a Milton Hardcastle yet that would've appreciated a gift of neck-wear."

"Well I'm glad to know some things haven't changed." He located the seam in the wrapping paper and began to carefully lift the tape. When he had gotten the paper removed with barely a rip, he lifted the item in his lap and turned it over to see the front.

And for just a second, he felt his heart stop.

Then he realized that the simple silver frame in his hands was shaking, so he lowered it carefully back to his lap, but didn't release his hold. The unmistakable masked figure on horseback seemed to be looking right at him, and across the black and white photograph was a signature, as clear and sharp as the picture itself. But it was the scripted words beneath the photo that caught his attention and wouldn't let go.

"The Creed," he whispered hoarsely, almost to himself. And, without really meaning to, he found himself reading aloud:

"_I believe that to have a friend,  
a man must be one._"

That was as far as he got before he had to stop and draw in a shaky breath. After blinking to clear his eyes, he chanced a look over at McCormick, and saw that those blue eyes were glowing, and that every bit of hesitation was gone, replaced with an emotion so honest and deep that he wondered how he hadn't seen it before. He tore his eyes away and resumed reading.

"_That all men are created equal  
and that everyone has within himself_  
_the power to make this a better world. _

That God put the firewood there  
but that every man  
must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared  
physically, mentally, and morally  
to fight when necessary  
for that which is right.

That a man should make the most  
of what equipment he has.

That 'This government,  
of the people, by the people  
and for the people'  
shall live always.

_That men should live by  
the rule of what is best  
for the greatest number. _

That sooner or later. . .  
somewhere. . .somehow. . .  
we must settle with the world  
and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth,  
and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man."

00000

The words were hanging in the air as Hardcastle continued to stare down at the picture in his hands. He traced his fingertip along the words slowly, then cleared his throat. He spoke without looking up.

"This is—" He broke off as his voice cracked. He started again. "I mean, it's—" He cleared his throat one last time, and finally raised up to meet McCormick's eyes.

"Thank you, kiddo."

And with the simple words, McCormick felt his own breath return, and he sank back into his chair just a little bit. _Thank God._

"It's really great," Hardcastle continued, his raspy voice gaining strength.

Mark smiled. "I'm glad you like it, Judge." He hesitated, then added, "I've never really known anyone who believed that stuff as much as you. You really are like the modern day Lone Ranger." He could feel himself blushing, but he didn't care. This man needed to _understand_.

Several beats passed before Hardcastle asked in a low voice, "And you're my Tonto?"

This time, there was no hesitation.

"Always."

00000

McCormick chopped the potatoes mindlessly, tossing the pieces into the colander waiting in the sink. When he had slipped out of the den earlier to begin the lunch preparation, he had been a little bit worried that Hardcastle would offer to come help. But now that enough time had elapsed for him to slather the turkey with butter and seasonings and pop it into the oven, and peel the potatoes, he understood that the judge was probably as relieved as he was for the chance to be alone.

Who knew precisely what Hardcastle was thinking, but he thought the gift exchange had gone remarkably well. The briefcase the judge had given him was great, especially because it implied such faith in his success. He wondered if this judge could understand that, and he hated that the man wouldn't know how much that faith meant to him.

On the other hand, after seeing Hardcastle's reaction to his own gift, McCormick thought maybe the guy had a little bit of an idea, after all. In that one moment, it had almost seemed like his Hardcastle was back, like there was no gulf between them at all, like they were sharing all of the truths that had never needed to be spoken. It had torn at his heart, both because he had doubted that moment would ever come again, and because he feared it couldn't last.

But as he turned on the water to rinse the potatoes, Mark held on to that moment in his heart. And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, he honestly believed that everything would be all right.

00000

Hardcastle sat behind his desk, deep in thought. Two hours or more had passed since McCormick had said, 'Even small turkeys take a while to bake,' and then excused himself to go prepare lunch. And the judge had been grateful for the time alone.

He had been glued to his seat for a long time, reading and re-reading the Creed, marveling that anyone—especially a con he had sent up—could understand him so completely. But there seemed little doubt that McCormick did, in fact, understand. This clearly was no scam; he had rarely seen such open sincerity as the young man had displayed this morning.

After a while he had crossed over to his desk, carrying the frame with him. He had laid it down carefully, then reached into the middle drawer for McCormick's file. He had read through it so many times this past week, he practically had it memorized, but he kept searching, looking for answers that had remained stubbornly elusive.

Of course, the kid maintained that the answers weren't there to be found, and now, as he looked between the tattered manila folder and the gracefully matted words, he found himself wondering if McCormick wasn't right.

"All things change but truth," he muttered to himself. But when had he become so jaded that he believed the complete truth could be found in a police record? He wasn't sure, but if he could believe everything that had happened in the past ten days, it seemed that he was destined to redeem himself.

He looked over at the amazing gift, given from the man who still seemed more stranger than friend. Then he glanced back at the file. In truth, he didn't know _that_ guy, either, so why be so quick to accept that one, instead of the living, breathing one clanging around in the kitchen making the Christmas dinner?

He opened the file, staring at the mug shot stapled inside, and let his mind wander back over the things he had been told recently, from Frank, Sarah, the kid himself. They all seemed to support McCormick's claim: _The answers came later_.

"To have a friend," he said quietly to himself.

Hardcastle closed the file purposefully, opened the bottom desk drawer and jammed it far in the back, behind everything else, then pushed the drawer closed again. He smiled as he cast one last look at the framed picture lying on his desk, then he rose and started toward the door.

"Hey, Mark, when do we eat?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Maybe it was only by comparison with the morning's events, but Christmas dinner had seemed a little flat. _Well, isn't that how it always is?_ McCormick gave that one some thought as he took his time with the last of the kitchen clean up. The meal had been almost solemn. Mark thought for a while they had drifted back to merely civil. _One step forward, two steps back._

It was . . . exhausting. And if that's what it was for him, he had to wonder how the guy in the other room was holding up. Mark shook his head. It wouldn't do to ask. He wasn't sure if the judge was getting any sleep at all. He'd been awake every night on his own at the time they'd designated for the changing of the watch.

He dried the last glass and put it on the shelf. Then he folded the towel and draped it over the rack. Nothing left to do but fill a plate with cookies—_more peace offerings—_and go back into the den._ Then what?_

He checked his watch. The game would be starting in a little while. Yeah, the judge wouldn't know any of the players, but it would give them something to talk about. And he wasn't going to let the man bet against Alabama, no matter what, not even with a fourteen point spread. It wouldn't be fair. Hell, it wouldn't be _safe_.

00000

Hardcastle stared dubiously at the remote control for the TV. Of the several thousand points at which this new life was at variance with his old, not being able to make the damn TV work properly was surely near the bottom of the list in importance. But it was aggravating nonetheless.

He put it down and stepped over by his desk, having heard footsteps in the hall. It had just been a flash of a thought, the one that went: _Good, Mark will take care of it, _but he found that aggravating, too.

He came bearing cookies and coffee on a tray, and something close to a smile on his face, though he looked taken aback when he came through the doorway. Hardcastle was pretty sure he hadn't managed to get the scowl off his own face before the kid had seen it.

"Almost time for the game," Mark said cautiously.

Hardcastle found this hesitance frustrating, too. Somehow that registered as wrong to him, that Mark should be tiptoeing around him, measuring out every comment. But he didn't think getting angry about _that_ would help things much.

Mark had put the tray down and picked up the remote. He cast one last sideward look in the judge's direction and asked, "There wasn't something else you wanted to watch, was there?"

Hardcastle shook his head and bit his tongue. It was him, too, weighing words now, as though they'd built some sort of fragile bridge and neither of them was sure just what sort of load it would bear.

"Game's fine. Alabama and . . .?"

"Washington. I'm giving the Huskies twenty." That last bit had seemed to slip out unbidden, and now Mark was standing there, looking painfully self-conscious. "And I am doing that entirely on a theoretical level," he added, very archly.

That did it. Hardcastle sat down with a thump and laughed out loud. From the kid he got a wry smile and a shake of the head.

"Well, I gotta leave you enough to pay that tuition bill." And, with that, he took his own seat and pushed the plate of cookies in the judge's direction.

00000

Twenty points wouldn't have been enough. A combination of tedium and turkey made McCormick's eyes drift shut somewhere in the third quarter. He awoke to a tap on the shoulder and the judge saying, "Gonna get a crick in your neck. Why don't you go lie down?"

And, in his temporary disorientation, it seemed like an ordinary moment, until the whole thing came back to him with an almost palpable thud. _That's what it's like for him; he's living in that moment when you first wake up, and you're not quite sure what planet you're on._

"Ah . . ." he was looking up at the judge's face. "Yeah, I was going to take a nap."

He blinked a couple times at the TV. They'd cut away to a commercial; the insurance ads were at least as interesting as the game by this point. He stumbled to his feet, and said, over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a couple hours; I'll make us some turkey sandwiches, okay?" It was only then, when he was turning to mount the steps, that he saw the photo and the words in the silver frame, sitting prominently on the mantle.

He ducked his chin and took the steps hastily, and it wasn't until he was well outside the door that he said it, still under his breath. "Hi-Yo Silver, away." And, despite his fatigue, he walked along the driveway to the gatehouse feeling a little lighter than he had that morning.

00000

Dusk had become dark when he woke again, feeling semi-normal and nearly caught-up. The clock read six forty-five. He frowned. He must have turned the alarm off at five-thirty in his sleep. _Turkey sandwiches,_ his conscience prodded, and he climbed out of bed and headed down the stairs.

He had the front door to the main house half open before he remembered to knock, but Hardcastle didn't respond to his tentative, "Hello?" Not in the den. He heard some puttering noises from the kitchen and headed that way. _Well, he probably got tired of waiting._

He found the judge putting the last touches on a fairly nice spread of leftovers and looking very pleased with himself. This contrasted nicely with the greeting he growled.

"If I'd waited for you to get started, we might've starved."

McCormick grinned, did not point out that after today's dinner they were both pretty safe in that regard, and managed to hang his head and look contrite. "Sorry, overslept."

"Well, you must've needed it, I suppose." The judge grumbled mildly, and something in the tone gave Mark a moment's pause.

_That's how he used to sound, when you first came here, if he was worried about you._ He was fighting down the grin again. How the hell could he explain to the man that he preferred _this_ to saccharin politeness? He sat down at the kitchen table and started to reach toward the plate of turkey sandwiches. _Now if we could just get back on a last-name basis—_

"Mark?"

McCormick winced; he hoped it wasn't visible. "Ah, yeah?"

The judge was looking at his a little more pensively. He hadn't put any food on his own plate yet. "I was thinking, ah—"

"What are we going to do next?" Mark spoke around the first mouthful.

"Well . . . yeah." Hardcastle reached for the leftover mashed potatoes, still frowning.

Mark chewed thoughtfully for a moment longer, then he put the sandwich down and leaned one elbow on the table. "Okay, I thought maybe I'd take a run at them tomorrow morning. I'll be, say, a . . ." he looked upward at the ceiling for a little inspiration, "oh, how 'bout a paralegal with the Securities and Exchange Commission. I think maybe we're missing some notarized signatures from their registration statements, pursuant to section eight of The Investment Companies Act of 1940, subsection b-1."

Hardcastle was looking at him in appalled astonishment. It took him a moment to respond, and then it was barely contained doubt. "You think you can just waltz in there and ask them to start showing you papers?"

"Well, that's what the SEC does, right? I mean, if they've been at this for a while now, they've probably lost count of how many forms they've been asked to fill out. You know, there are thirty-two sections just in Schedule A _alone_ of the Securities Act of 1933 . . . I've been reading up."

"And what if they ask you for an ID? And, anyway, you can't go around impersonating government officials, even a paralegal."

"Judge, it'll be Friday, the day after Christmas. Who the hell do you think is going to be there? We're talking about the secretary with the least seniority, maybe even a temp. I'll put on a nice suit, and I've got this really great briefcase. And, as for the _impersonating_, you'd be amazed what I can not say and still sound like I've said."

This got a smile, small and a little worried, from the older man. "And what do I do?"

"If you promise to be good, I'll let you come along in the car, but there's a chance that somebody there already knows you by sight, so you'd better not go in with me. Hell, for all we know, you may've pulled the same scam a couple weeks ago." McCormick shook his head. "The only difference is, you probably didn't have to look up as much stuff as I did."

The look persisted, still doubtful, still worried.

"Aw, come on. They're not going to shoot me in broad daylight in their office, even if I can't produce an ID."

"And, knowing you," Hardcastle frowned, "if they did, you'd probably think it was a positive development."

McCormick had frozen at the first three words, entirely overtaken by the irony. It took him a moment to shake himself free from that, though he thought probably the judge hadn't noticed.

Well," he smiled, "it _would_ be a step in the right direction. But don't worry;" he added hastily, "it'll just be a minor reconnaissance mission. If anything looks hinky, I'll back out and call for reinforcements. Okay?"

And, after a moment's hesitance, the judge nodded.

00000

He took first watch again that night, feeling surprisingly well rested. The judge had seemed a little reluctant to turn in, but finally gave up around eleven o'clock.

"If I'm not down by four, wake me." He climbed the stairs with a heavy tread, leaving McCormick weighing the risks of disobedience against the benefits of letting him get a decent night's rest.

Mark fetched the shotgun and settled back in the chair, with yet another book from the Hardcastle library—Hazen's _Law of Securities Regulation,_ entirely grateful that the judge had let him sleep in this evening, but still pretty certain he'd need coffee, a lot of coffee, before he got through the section on corporate recapitalization.

He'd only waded through a couple of chapters, and was almost entirely certain he hadn't dozed off, when a sudden, muffled shout jolted him out of the chair. Book tumbling down, he snatched for the gun, and bolted for the stairs. The sound had definitely come from up there, and his first panicky thought was that somehow he'd become so immersed that he hadn't heard the back door open.

_No, not possible. I was awake. Someone got in upstairs? _He took the steps two at a time. No shots, no more shouts. He hadn't had time to think about it before he was upstairs, uninvited, at the doorway to the judge's bedroom. The door was open and the only light was coming from the hallway.

It was silent except for harsh, fast breathing, almost as loud as his own. The light that cut across the room showed no intruder, only the judge sitting up in bed with a look of horror on his face.

McCormick cautiously pushed the door open the rest of the way. Whatever it was the man was looking at, it wasn't in _this_ room. _He's not awake. _Mark set the shotgun against the wall by the door. The eyes weren't tracking on him.

"Judge?" he said gently. "I'm going to turn on the light." He reached for the switch. He thought maybe there'd been a blink at his first words, and now the man's shoulders slumped down a little, and he was blinking in earnest.

"Sorry," Mark stood there, frozen halfway between the light switch and the side of the bed.

"What the . . .?" Hardcastle was looking around dazedly. He had one hand on his chest. His face was wet with sweat.

McCormick had a sudden flash of insight. "Oh, my God. That," he said, half under his breath. _Of course he must've seen the damn scar. What the hell were you thinking? He needed to know about that._

"Judge?" Not getting any sign, Mark pulled up a chair and sat himself down next to the bed. "You're awake?" he asked gently; then, a little more firmly, "You're awake now—okay? It's all right."

He fought the urge to reach out and take the hand that was still resting right over the place where the judge had been shot. _Neither_ Hardcastle would be comfortable with that gesture but, _honestly, if he doesn't snap out of it—_

But now the judge had let go of his chest and was running his fingers back through his hair, and looking at Mark with confused recognition. "I was . . ."

"Shot." Mark finished for him, feeling a sudden need to get it out. "It was almost two years ago."

"No, I was in a _courtroom_. And the guy, it was . . . I remember him, crazy guy, ah . . ."

"Weed Randall," McCormick said flatly.

"Yeah," the judge nodded, "I remember him. But _that_ was . . . in 1969. And he was _convicted_."

"No, it was the second time," McCormick's voice was still very flat.

"_Two_ years ago? But you said I retired—"

"They un-retired you. You were familiar with the case and, ah, we'd dug up some new evidence. Another murder."

"I'd dug up more evidence, and they let _me_ preside over the case?"

McCormick shook his head. "I did the digging; you did the presiding." He felt his shoulders sinking down. "It was a birthday present."

He was staring fixedly at the bottom of the bedpost when he heard the judge say, with some intensity, "Heck of a birthday present."

He looked up in surprise. "That's what _I_ said."

"So, anyway," Hardcastle exhaled heavily, "he got convicted."

McCormick was looking down again. "Wasn't necessary."

"Ah . . . the police shot him."

"No," Mark didn't look up, "I did."

00000

The kid hadn't looked at him since he'd said it, and there was something in the tone of his voice that was so flat, so _dead_, that Hardcastle was immediately aware that he was walking over haunted ground. _But we must've had this conversation before. What the hell did I say to him then?_

"And you'd never shot anyone before." The words came out before he'd even had a chance to think about them.

Just a shake of the younger man's head, but his eyes had come up, just enough to lock onto the judge's.

"It wasn't revenge," Hardcastle said with a certainty that surprised himself.

The kid looked surprised, too. "How do you know?"

"Oh," Hardcastle shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about it, "lots of reasons . . . for one thing, you're not back in prison." Then he frowned. "But, where'd you get the gun?"

"It was yours," Mark replied quietly. "You gave it to the surgeon to give to me. I still had it with me when I found Randall."

He was watching the kid closely now. There was a tremor in his shoulders.

"What the hell was I _thinking_?" Hardcastle said with some disbelief.

"Dunno," Mark smiled sadly, "might have been because you were dying." The words stopped for a moment. Then he started up again, with a different tone. "Ah . . . I better get back downstairs. You ought to try and get back to sleep." He was on his feet, pushing the chair back to its place by the wall.

"Not likely," the judge said, half to himself. Again it was before he could even think about it.

Mark had swung around and was staring at him intently. "You've _got_ to," he said, with some intensity. Then he swallowed once. "I'm sorry. It must be hard, all these weird dreams." He shook his head. "But I think it's helping. I really do."

Hardcastle looked past the kid, avoiding his eyes. "They're . . . exhausting," he admitted reluctantly. "Worse than not sleeping."

Mark nodded. "I figured that . . . This one, will you have it again?"

"Probably," the judge muttered. "Again _and_ again."

"Look," Mark stepped forward. "I can't make 'em go away, but I can promise you, they come out okay in the end . . . mostly." He frowned down at the floor for a moment, then looked up again. "I'm in that one. Oh, I was so _damn_ close, not even ten feet from him."

"But you say it's not a dream," Hardcastle said practically. "It really happened. You can't change that."

"No, I know that." Mark lifted his chin and was giving him a steady look. "But I _was_ there. I'll be there, every time." He nodded once, as if he'd made up his mind about something and there was no turning back. "And _you_ made it through."

Somehow, for just a moment, the judge saw that there just might be a connection between those two facts.

00000

Four a.m. came and passed, and five, as well. McCormick had made it to the chapter on false SEC filings and was on his seventh cup of coffee. He hadn't heard any more sounds from upstairs, even though he'd left the door open. At seven, though, there were footsteps on the stairs, and a grumbling from the hallway.

"You didn't wake me up. I overslept."

"Well," Mark said, smiling as the older man stood in the doorway, looking tousled, but not nearly so haggard, "you must have needed it."

He tore a blank page from the notebook he'd been using, and, folding it once, stuck it between the pages. He set the book aside, then stood up and stretched, then moved over to the couch. "Okay, don't let me sleep through breakfast. I want to hit that place by eleven o'clock."

Hardcastle stepped down into the room, glancing at the book. He frowned. "There's a lot of beds upstairs."

"What, the snoring starting to get to you?" McCormick grinned.

"No, I just think if you're gonna have to think on your feet this morning, you'd be better off getting some real sleep in a real bed."

"Okay," the grin softened a little. "Upstairs. Wake me up by nine."

He'd turned toward the hallway and had a foot on the first step when the phone rang. He half jumped and then darted his eyes toward the desk. The judge seemed just as startled. By the second ring McCormick was within reach. One more quick glance at the older man and he had the receiver in his hand.

"Hello?" he said.

There was a halting and female "Ah . . ." from the other end.

Mark waited another half-beat before he said, "May I help you?" encouragingly.

There was another "Ah," followed by a hesitant, "I'm not sure. I'm looking for someone." Then, in little jerking breaths as if the speaker had been crying, "I'm sorry to call . . . at such a crazy time. Oh . . . I'm sorry . . . this whole thing is so crazy."

"Slow down," Mark said firmly, all the time thinking that if this was just someone who'd had one too many eggnogs and misdialed, he was going to pitch the phone in the pool and go hang himself from the balcony of the gatehouse. And yet . . . there was something about the woman's tone.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked gently.

As if he'd opened a floodgate, the rest came out in a rush. "My father, Thomas Henry. He's been missing for over a week, now."

McCormick dropped into the desk chair, clutching the phone tightly.

"Henry?" he repeated, almost breathlessly. He saw the judge's eyebrows go up as he moved in closer.

"Yes, but, ah," there was another moment's hesitation, and then, "who _am_ I speaking to? Do you know my father? I found this phone number inside the cover of one of his notebooks. I couldn't sleep. I was going through his things."

"Wait," McCormick put one hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at the judge. "'Thomas Henry', ring any bells? I don't remember him from the files."

Hardcastle knitted his brows. "Ah, yeah . . . I knew a guy by that name. UC, undergraduate. Played forward. I think. A couple years younger than me."

"There's someone here who knew your dad, maybe. Did he ever mention someone named Milton Hardcastle?"

Puzzled silence, followed by a small, "No."

"Did your father go to UC—I mean, back in the forties?" Mark hit the speaker button and recradled the phone.

"Yes. Oh," there was a near sob, "do you have _any_ idea where he might be?"

Mark put one elbow on the desk and rubbed his temple. He asked the next part slowly, as if a great deal depended on the answer. "When did he go missing?"

"I'm . . ." there was another sound; this was definitely a sob, "I'm not exactly sure. I talked to him last, a week ago Monday. He seemed a bit distracted. Maybe worried about something, but he didn't say what."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I tried to call him Wednesday and Thursday. Thursday afternoon I went over to his place—he just moved a couple of weeks ago, he lives alone; he wasn't home. I have a key. I let myself in. Everything looked very ordinary, but there was quite a bit of mail in the box. Maybe two or three days' worth.

"Did you make a police report?"

"I tried to, that day. They told me to call them back if he didn't show up by Sunday. He didn't. I've been staying here at his place since then. But now it's been four days since I made the report, and no one knows _anything_."

Mark was watching Hardcastle, who was frowning deeply but not showing any signs of recognition.

"Okay," McCormick cut back in, "we need to talk, but not over the phone."

There was another moment of silence from the other end. Mark understood that. The woman was frightened. He was actually relieved to find he was dealing with someone who had a grip on the possibilities.

"Look," he said. "You don't have to give me any more information right now. I want you to call Lieutenant Frank Harper," he gave her Frank's office number. "He's with the LAPD. Tell _him_ you made a missing persons report four days ago on a man named Henry. Tell him you talked to Mark McCormick. We can meet here, in Malibu, or we can meet at his office, but we've got to meet this morning. Does that sound okay?"

"Yes." There was an exhalation of relief. "He'll listen to me?"

"Oh, _yeah_." Mark shook his head slowly. "He would have listened to you last Thursday. Okay, you've got the number? This morning, okay? He'll be there by eight."

"I understand." Both her fear and relief were palpable. "I'll call. Half an hour."

There was a gentle click and the line went dead. McCormick remained frozen there, staring at the phone for a full moment before he gradually realized he was sitting in the judge's chair, behind the judge's desk. He lifted his eyes as he eased out of the seat.

Hardcastle was still absorbed in thought, and hadn't seemed to notice until Mark started to move. Then he frowned at the younger man, who froze again, half upright.

"Henry's an awfully common name," Hardcastle observed. "And there are hundreds of missing persons reports. Can't blame him for not making that connection. We didn't even know it _was_ a last name." Then his frown deepened a little more. "And would you stop looking at me like I'm going to bite your head off just because you sat in my chair?"

McCormick exhaled with relief and almost sank back down again before the judge barked, "Though I _really_ wish you wouldn't." Then he reached forward to dial Frank's home number.

00000

Mark never got to bed. He did manage a shower and yet another cup of coffee. He picked up Hazen and put it down again at least five times, without reading a single paragraph, before he finally heard Frank's car in the drive.

He put the book back on the table. The judge was already looking over his shoulder out the window.

"They're here," Hardcastle said, with an edge to his voice that was unfamiliar.

_He's nervous._

McCormick was on his feet and halfway to the door before the bell rang. He'd caught a glimpse of Frank, and the woman he was escorting, through the front window over the judge's shoulder. She'd looked a little older than he'd have guessed from her voice, though that might have been a consequence of a week of no answers and not much sleep; he was feeling about ten years older, himself.

Now, opening the door, he studied her more closely—a little above average height, and angular, with a few wisps of gray in among the auburn. She had fine lines of weariness around her eyes, but, still, she looked like someone who wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"Mr. McCormick? I'm Rebecca Henry," she reached past Frank, not waiting to be introduced. She was much less tentative face to face than she'd been on the phone. "The lieutenant told me what happened to Judge Hardcastle. It seems . . . oddly coincidental."

McCormick looked toward Frank, as he ushered them both into the hallway.

"Oh, wait'll you hear her side of it," Frank said grimly.

"I'm gonna get to say 'I told you so'?" Mark cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I just want you to know; I never doubted you for a minute," Frank said, with a tight smile.

McCormick led them both into the den and pointed Ms. Henry toward a chair. The judge was on his feet. He was obviously studying the new visitor, and, just as obviously, to Mark, at any rate, drawing a blank.

Frank took over the introductions, then he pulled another chair out for himself and sat down. "Ms. Henry's father is a research pharmacologist. He's a former employee of the Holgremsen Institute." He nodded once in the woman's direction.

Rebecca Henry took over the story smoothly. "My dad worked for Dr. Holgremsen for years, practically from the start of the Institute. A lot of basic research." She was leaning forward in her seat. "Oh, I loved that place. They were a little old fashioned—wood floors, deal-top tables—but they did first-rate work. This new place . . ." she shook her head doubtfully. "It's _different_ there."

"Tell 'em what they were studying," Frank prodded gently.

"Mostly memory." Ms. Henry looked from Frank to the other two men. "That was Holgremsen's big area of interest. His own father had suffered from Pick's disease, that's a rare form of dementia. Before he died he couldn't even recognize his own son." She shook her head. "Diseases that attack memory were Holgremsen's life's work; my father's, too." She lifted her eyes and looked at the judge. "Do you know him well?"

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"It's possible, but I don't think so," the judge finally replied. "I knew him in college, but we weren't even on the varsity team the same year. He was more of an acquaintance."

"He's like that, too," Rebecca smiled. "He remembers people he hadn't seen in years. He would have remembered you. He's always pointing out people in the newspaper." The smile had gone rather pensive. "The lieutenant told me you help people, sort of a trouble-shooter."

Hardcastle shot a look at Frank, who shrugged and smiled back. The look flashed over to McCormick, who seconded Frank with a nod.

The judge frowned. "Guess you could call it that."

Ms. Henry seemed to have caught the interplay. Her smile was gone. "How bad is it?"

There was another long, silent moment. Mark finally stepped in. "Fifteen years . . . gone. It happened between ten p.m. and about three a.m., last Monday night."

Rebecca sat, hands in lap, biting her lower lip for a moment. Then she lifted her head. "I think he was in some sort of trouble. I think he came to you for help."

"That much we kinda figured out," Mark interjected again. The judge was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "The question is—what kind of trouble?"

He thought if she bit any harder, she was going to start bleeding. Then she looked up at him again.

"Mr. McCormick, my father wanted to get out of Symnetech. He started talking like that a couple of months ago. He said they were pressuring him to . . . _finish _something." She frowned. "My father didn't do the kind of research that got 'finished'. I'd never heard him talk like that before. He told me two weeks ago, just the week before he disappeared, that he was going to go to Dr. Grieves. He was going to resign. Then something else happened. He changed his mind."

"Did he say _what_ he was working on?" Mark asked insistently. "Did he give any kind of idea?"

"Well," she rubbed her temple wearily, "about six months ago, he was really excited about something. He kept talking about a breakthrough in the treatment of senile dementia. Something that would help the brain compensate for the damage that occurs."

"A drug?" Mark asked.

"That's the only thing it could have been," Rebecca nodded. "I've got some of his notebooks but, my dad, when he makes notes, it's a real scrawl. I'm not even sure if they're the right ones. The rest of his stuff is over at Symnetech's new building."

"That's the place in Glendale," Harper interjected.

Mark was giving him a rather fixed look. Things got both quiet and tense for a moment. "You know, Frank—"

Harper was already frowning. "Don't tell me. You think maybe I don't want to be around for this next bit."

"Well," Hardcastle drawled, "At least he's not promising _you_ he's not gonna get shot again." He spared a glace toward the increasingly alarmed-looking woman across the desk from him. "Don't worry, Miss Henry; we're just at the reconnaissance stage here, but I think your father's disappearance justifies some pretty aggressive measures."

Rebecca Henry nodded in hopeful agreement.

"Mark," he turned his head toward the younger man, "why don't you take our guest out and show her the view from the backyard; she looks like she could use a little air."

"Want us to get you a glass of water on the way back in?" McCormick asked cryptically and, getting only a mild scowl, added, "How long?"

"Just a few minutes."

"Okay," Mark sighed. "The view it is." He gestured politely to the door and Ms. Henry rose at the invitation, with a mildly puzzled expression.

00000

Frank turned to watch them go, and, out of the corner of his eye, caught something glinting on the mantle that he'd never noticed before. He leaned forward and took a closer look.

"Nice," he said, over his shoulder. "Very appropriate."

"A Christmas present," the judge said laconically.

"He knows how to pick 'em." Frank nodded. "So, how _was_ your Christmas?"

Hardcastle rubbed his forehead for a moment in silence, before he segued. "Weed Randall."

Frank's eyebrows went up. He had both hands in his pockets. "You remember _him_?"

"Not all of it, just the part in the courtroom. Mark says it happened two years ago." Hardcastle looked frustrated as hell. "I'm stuck there . . . and I know Mark shot Randall; he told me _that_." Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't say anything else."

"No big surprise—he _never_ talks about it." Frank leaned back against the mantle. "I took his statement; it was like pulling teeth." He frowned thoughtfully. "You've got a copy of it around here somewhere; you told me he gave it to you. It's not in his file?"

The judge shook his head.

"Well, it was about as righteous as they come. Randall had a gun on Sandy Knight. He forced Mark's hand, no question."

"Sandy? Bill Knight's son? He's only—"

"Thirteen? Nope. He _was_ a cop. Sort of." Frank was still frowning. "The whole thing was pretty messy, righteous or not. I'm surprised the parole board didn't drop the hammer on Mark just because he was carrying a piece. Though it was a damn good thing he _was_."

Frank straightened up, took one last glance over his shoulder at the frame on the mantle. "Look, all those stories I was telling you, the stuff you two have pulled off . . . I dunno; I don't want to give you the impression that you were _crazy_. It was just that, if something needed doing, you two would get it done . . . and if something needed to be gotten, he'd get it."

"Like now?

"Yeah," Frank admitted, "I'd say he's pretty motivated."

"Well, don't worry," Hardcastle sighed. "I'll keep him on a short leash."

Frank had his hands in his pockets again. He was staring down at the floor just ahead of his feet. He cocked his head after a moment and looked the judge very directly in the eye. "Not too short of one, okay?"

00000

The view from the back of the estate, out over the Pacific, was a spectacular one, but neither of the two had any interest in scenery.

McCormick was lost enough in his own machinations that he'd fallen completely silent.

When Rebecca finally blurted out, "Do you think my father is still alive?" it took him so much by surprise that he didn't have time to compose an effective and consoling lie.

Instead, he merely answered, "I don't know, but I want to find out." Then, saying out loud what he'd been turning over in his head, he added, "I need to get my foot in the door at Symnetech. I'll head over there as soon as Frank leaves."

"I might be able to get you in. They know me."

"I thought about that," Mark looked out over the waves, not really seeing what he was staring at, "but if I go with you, and we get stonewalled, then the jig's up. If I go by myself, and they toss me out; then we've still got you in reserve. Though, frankly, as soon as you set foot in there and ask to get your father's things, they'll know we're on to them. This is assuming that _they're _part of the problem. We don't even know _that_."

Rebecca nodded.

"But you can keep the judge company while I'm over there."

She smiled a little at that. "He seems . . . a bit at ends."

"Aren't we all," McCormick said flatly. "It's been a rough week and a half." He turned halfway to face the woman. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let them get away with it."

"Me, neither," she exhaled.

He gave her a tight smile and a quick nod of approval. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "Think we've given them enough time?"

The puzzled look was back. "Enough time to do what?"

McCormick turned back; the smile had become the beginning of a grin. "Discuss my shortcomings, most likely."

They walked around to the front, to kill a little more time, and ran into Frank on the steps. He gave Mark a quick up and down, and then sighed as he said, "Just try and remember how hard it is to arrange bail during the holidays, okay?"

00000

He left Rebecca Henry sitting in the den with the judge, and went to put on a suit and a tie, aiming for something resembling a minion of the federal bureaucracy. Harried and unrested wouldn't even be a stretch. The briefcase, he realized, was too nice. He grabbed his old one from next to his desk.

He ducked back to the main house, knocked perfunctorily and entered. He heard muted voices from the den—Hardcastle asking a question he couldn't quite make out, and Ms. Henry's murmured answer. _He's good at that, _McCormick thought with a shock_. He's always been good at that—_Apparently for longer than fifteen years, anyway.

He was fairly certain that Rebecca Henry would be thoroughly debriefed by the time he got back. He cleared his throat as he entered the doorway to the den.

"'Bout ready to go," he said with a nod.

Hardcastle was giving him the once-over. "Yup, I'd say you'd pass as a law clerk."

"Paralegal," McCormick corrected with a grin. "Modern times."

"Just don't say anything that rates as an offense under the US Code, okay?"

"Title 18, section 912. I got it memorized, Judge."

The older man let out a sigh. "All right, just be careful."

"Always," the grin softened to a smile. "Well, mostly always."

This got a grunt, almost as if the judge was working from personal recollection here. Mark nodded once at Ms. Henry and ducked out.

00000

Hardcastle watched him go with an odd itch that he was beginning to recognize as a form of worry. _And where had that 'Be careful' come from? Anyway, Frank says he can handle himself. _And, if that little demonstration of verbal legerdemain at dinner the night before had been any indication, Frank was right.

He shook off a frown and turned back to Rebecca Henry. He'd already taken her over her father's personal life, and the details of his daily routine. So far, he hadn't uncovered anything useful.

"His co-workers?" the judge suggested. "Was he very close to any of them? Would any of them been working with _him_ closely enough to know what was going on?"

"My father was a bit of a loner. He liked working that way, and, anyway, that's the kind of people the Institute attracted—iconoclasts, lone wolves. I haven't tried to contact any of them. I don't even know how to, except through the office at Symnetech."

"Just as well," Hardcastle pondered. "Any of them might be in on it, whatever 'it' is. Otherwise, I'd've hoped they would have already contacted the authorities, if they were aware of anything suspicious going on."

"Now the interns, they're another matter."

Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up. "Interns?"

"He usually had one. They rotated through every few months. I've met a few of them, but I don't know who he had recently. They're graduate students from the university. They get their name at the bottom of the author's list on whatever paper my dad's working on, and he gets someone who can make sure his dry cleaning gets picked up, and his typing doesn't look as bad as his writing.

"They help him with his _notes_?"

"Sometimes," Ms. Henry said slowly. "But just the stuff that's ready to be published. My dad's kind of . . . secretive. It's not that he doesn't want to share," she hurriedly added. "It's just that he doesn't want his work looked at prematurely. He wants to be sure of his facts first."

Hardcastle nodded, trying to picture someone with that personality working in a hard-charging, profit-making organization.

"So," he glanced up at her again, "who would know who your father's current intern is? I mean, besides the nice folks at Symnetech," he added with a grim smile.

"The university, I suppose. They all come from there, from the chemistry department, mostly. But the rotation ends with the semester. And now everyone's gone for the holiday break."

"I know some people over there." Hardcastle frowned again suddenly. "At least I _used_ to." He shook his head in aggravation. "None of them were in that department. Maybe I should put Frank on it. Might need a subpoena." He sat back in his seat, gradually becoming aware that Rebecca Henry was watching him. "What?" he asked.

"Oh," she twitched from her reverie. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be staring. I was just . . . wondering."

"_What_?" he tried not to sound impatient. He didn't think he could stand any sympathy right now.

"Is it possible that my father's alive, but just doesn't know who he is?"

"Well, I know who _I _am," he added an almost silent '_dammit' _under his breath. "_I_ haven't changed, even if everything _else_ has." He sat for a moment, scowling. Then he realized the woman had drawn back a little. "Sorry," he muttered. "Maybe I'm not really myself."

He shook his head. "Dunno. If it happened to him, he'd still remember you, and working for the institute. He'd have things left_—a life. _He could find his way to you, once he knew it was 1986, couldn't he?"

"Oh," she said with some chagrin, "not much change there."

"Then it's something more than that," he said definitively. He looked up at her again suddenly, realizing he wasn't being much of a comfort. "Sorry," he said, this time a little more audibly.

"No, I understand. You're right, he would have found me," she let out a slow breath, "like you found your friend."

"Well," Hardcastle frowned, "it was kind of like he found _me_." He glanced over his shoulder, out at the empty drive. The kid probably hadn't even arrived at his destination yet. He turned back toward Ms. Henry, trying to keep the worry off his face.

"Oh," she said. It was a soft syllable of sudden understanding. "You don't remember him? Not at all?"

Hardcastle shook his head tightly.

"He said," she paused, as if she was trying to get it exactly right. "He said he'd be damned if he'd let them get away with it." She lifted her chin. "I think I believe him."

"Yeah, he doesn't give up too easy." And the moment he'd said it, the judge had a deep conviction that it was true, even beyond the evidence of the past ten days.

They both sank into a pensive silence that went on for a moment more; finally Rebecca Henry sighed and said, "Roses, that's what it was."

"What?" the judge asked, half-distractedly.

"I was trying to remember something." She blushed a little. "I'm sorry; what a thing to say." He brushed it off with a quick gesture. She smiled, and then said, "It was a quote, something I read once, that God gave us memory so we can have roses in December."

Hardcastle cocked his head. "Thorns," he replied quietly, without even a moment's hesitation. "Thorns year-round. They seem a hellu'va lot more durable."

00000

McCormick parked the Coyote around the corner from the Glendale address Frank had provided. The car didn't go with his minion persona and he couldn't risk being seen exiting it.

Symnetech occupied the second floor of a sleek new office building. Mark found himself paying particular attention to the security measures, five minutes of daytime inspection was worth any amount of nocturnal preparation. To his surprise, none of it appeared particularly advanced.

The elevator opened onto a nicely appointed lobby, uninhabited except for a receptionist who looked like she also hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she'd been studying.

"May I—?"

"McCormick, here to see Mr., ah," he consulted the notebook he'd stowed in his pocket, "Grieves, about some of the filings, ah, section 26 of Schedule A."

The young woman at the desk looked slightly flummoxed. She blinked her way back to the beginning of the recital and seized on the only bit she'd apparently recognized. "Ohh, Mr. Grieves. He said he was expecting someone. Second door on the right. I'll buzz you in."

It was McCormick's turn to blink, but he only did so once. Then he followed where her finger directed, down a plushly carpeted hallway, not sure if he should be pleased or worried about the turn of events.

He took the knob, and leaned in as he heard the low buzz. The man behind the expansive rosewood desk looked up sharply. He was putting down the phone's receiver, and the words, "You're early," had just escaped his lips before he apparently realized his mistake.

Clement Grieves had an aristocratic face, which was frowning now. He pushed back a little from his desk and somehow managed to look down his nose at Mark despite his sitting position.

"Mr., ah . . .?"

"McCormick," Mark didn't bother to extend a hand. He was almost instantly aware, as soon as he'd spoken his name, that Grieves knew he was not who he hadn't said he was. "I'm here about the filing," he added smoothly. "I have some questions about the schedule A papers."

Grieves was studying him closely. Even more interestingly, he wasn't putting in a call to the building's security or to the police. Mark helped himself to a chair.

"Mr. . . . _McCormick_," Grieves seemed to be fighting down a bad attack of nerves, "I wasn't expecting you so _soon_."

Mark wasn't sure who Grieves was trying to pretend he thought he was but, what the hell, he'd clearly struck pay dirt in the guilty conscience department. He managed a tight smile.

"You're the one who's aiming for a January launch, right, Mr. Grieves?"

The would-be CEO licked his lips once, very nervously. "Ah, yes. And I thought all our papers were in order."

"Oh, there's always some little jot that needs fixing," McCormick's smile broadened. "In this case it section 26—'earnings and income, the nature and source thereof, and expenses for the latest fiscal year and for the two preceding fiscal years.' I paraphrase, of course."

"Of course," Grieves said sourly. "And I'm almost certain we've already provided that information." He flicked a glance in the direction of his watch. "If you could leave a note with Ms. Adams out there in the reception area, I'll have someone get on it as soon as possible."

McCormick was now aware that he was being given the bum's rush. Evidently Mr. Grieves was expecting more company—but still he made no attempt to call security. Mark relaxed back into his chair a bit further and took a slow, leisurely look around him at the office.

"I like what you've done with the place. Looks very . . . _prosperous_."

Grieves' frown deepened. "If that's all you needed from me . . ."

Mark finally took the hint. He didn't actually want to see the man sweat. He rose slowly, and this time he did extend a hand. Grieves reached forward awkwardly. _His_ hand was cold and clammy, not the grip of a criminal mastermind by a long shot.

"That will be all for now," McCormick smiled congenially, "but you know how these things are; I'll probably be back."

Grieves looked not at all pleased by this statement, but eager enough to see McCormick move toward the door. Even that small bit of joy dissipated when it opened to reveal another man standing by Ms. Adam's desk, waiting impatiently with a glowering expression.

Mark tipped a nod to the new visitor as he passed by. Grieves stood in the doorway of his office, wearing an expression that made his earlier nervousness look positively benign. Ms. Adams looked over at him, with the total cluelessness of a new hire, and announced the obvious—

"Your ten o'clock, Mr. Gularis, is here to see you."

And McCormick beamed happily to himself as he stepped into the opening elevator.

00000

He came in through the front door without even the pretense of a knock, dropped his briefcase just inside the hallway and steered directly for the den. The debriefing was apparently over. Hardcastle had made coffee, and the last of the Christmas cookies had been reduced to crumbs on a plate. The two of them had moved to more comfortable chairs, and an old college yearbook was open on the table between them.

Hardcastle's eyebrows rose at McCormick's grin.

"I'm back."

"And—?"

"And no arrest warrants have been sworn out against me."

"Well, there's an accomplishment," the judge huffed, though Mark thought he detected just a hint of relief in his eyes. "Anything _else_?"

"Yup," McCormick snatched a chair and pulled it over, dropping into it and leaning forward. "A guy named Gularis. Don't know the first name, though I'd guess it's maybe Tony or Vito. His nose is a little crooked, that's for sure. He's down in your basement somewhere. Maybe under 'money guys'."

Hardcastle frowned. "His first name is Walter . . . yeah, Wally Gularis. He's small fry though. Specialized in creative accountancy."

"Okay," Mark nodded. It never surprised him when the judge pulled some obscure crime-related fact out of his mental files, and that much apparently hadn't changed. "But I think he's moved up the food chain a bit since you last heard of him. He's definitely got Grieves scared."

"The mob trying to muscle in on Symnetech? Usually they go more for nightclubs than research institutes."

"Hey," Mark shrugged, "you heard what Frank said; there's a lot of money in antidepressants. Anyway, I think maybe Grieves went to them, first. That's a pretty upscale operation he's got going over there."

"Yes," Ms. Henry leaned forward into the conversation, "Dad said the same thing. He wondered where all the money was coming from. There was never that much around back in the old days, when they were using mostly grants, and they hadn't seen a penny's profit yet from the recent drug research."

"See," McCormick nodded again, "something seriously hinky is going down over there, and, wait, it gets better. I'm pretty sure Grieves recognized my name—"

"You used your real name?" Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up a notch again.

"Well, yeah. I told you I wasn't gonna do a 912 and, anyway, the cage-rattling value was pretty impressive." McCormick sat back with a satisfied look on his face. "So, whaddaya think? We got probable cause yet?"

"For a search warrant on Symnetech?" Hardcastle frowned. "_I _do. Frank _might_, but no judge in his right mind would go for it."

McCormick ignored what was probably unintentional self-deprecation. He sighed resignedly. "Okay, then I'm going to run Ms. Henry here back to her dad's place and see if we can scrounge up some of his notes. That okay with you?" He turned his head toward the woman.

She nodded.

He turned back to the judge. "And maybe you can go downstairs and get yourself up to speed on Wally . . . though I still think he's more of a Vito."

"You're gonna trust me to stay here by myself?" Hardcastle grimaced slightly.

"Guess I've got to," McCormick tried to keep it light. He _had_ been just a little concerned, though not for the reason the judge apparently thought. "We don't have a vehicle that seats three anymore. Maybe you could take a shotgun down there with you, okay?"

00000

Thomas Henry's place was small and Spartan, and looked barely settled into, with only books and papers as clutter—the personal space of a man who lived mostly in his head.

"There's a lot more here than he had in his old apartment," his daughter said. "I think he used to keep more of his personal papers in his office at the old Institute."

"That reminds me," Mark slipped the notebook out of his jacket pocket and leafed through it to the sketch he'd made shortly after his morning's visit with Grieves. "Maybe you could take a look at this." She leaned over as he passed it to her. "You've been there, haven't you?" he asked.

"The new building? Yes, once." She shuddered. "Do I sound like a cranky old woman? I don't know. Dad wasn't happy there. I didn't like it either."

Mark smiled. "I know, kinda gave me the creeps, too. But what I really need is to pick your brain a little. I only had a few seconds to look around, the rest of the time I was in Grieves' office."

"Oh, that big desk of his," she shook her head, "that alone must've cost over a thousand dollars."

"Okay, here's _his_ office." He pointed with the tip of his pen, "and there's the lobby—"

"Yes." She lifted her head and looked at him quizzically. "Why are we doing this, Mr. McCormick?"

"Call me Mark."

"Okay, if you'll call me Rebecca . . . and tell me why you need to know more about the layout of that building."

Mark smiled. He thought Thomas Henry's daughter was more than ready for desperate measures, but, on the other hand, she'd spent the morning in the clutches of Milton C. Hardcastle, and that tended to have a rectifying effect on some people.

"There might be something useful back in you father's new office—something that might help us figure out what happened to him." He tested the waters carefully.

"Oh," she nodded eagerly, "I could go there; tell them I was picking some of his things up for him."

McCormick winced. This one was too honest by half. "Well, if it's something useful to _us_," he pointed out, "it's probably dangerous to _them_. They may have hidden it—locked it up."

"So you're going to break in there tonight?" she said abruptly, making Mark suddenly wonder just what she and the judge had been discussing, besides her father's college basketball career.

"Um, it's a possibility." He frowned down at the sketch. "I _might_."

"And I'd better not mention any of this to Judge Hardcastle?"

He nodded. She took the notebook from him and looked at it for a moment, then asked for his pen. She filled in a few more details, and jotted down a couple of notes.

"Mind you, I wasn't 'casing the joint'." She gave him a small smile. "I was just bringing my dad a bagel and some coffee when I was there." The smile had become wistful. "But I think this is about right." She handed the sketch back to him. "Just promise you'll be careful, will you?"

"I try to be," Mark said, as he studied the drawing,

"Good," Rebecca nodded once sharply. "The judge was really worried about you today."

Mark looked up at her in blank surprise.

"Well, it was pretty obvious." She shrugged. "Come on, let's find those notebooks."

00000

It was mid-afternoon when they emerged from the Henry residence, McCormick bearing a cardboard box full of notebooks and loose papers. It had been hard to tell what might be relevant; Thomas Henry's scrawl surpassed Rebecca's description. McCormick had thumbed through a few pages and then shrugged. He doubted if he could have made anything out of it, even if it _had _been legible.

"I know somebody who might, though," he'd said as they sat there on the floor sorting things as best they could, "a guy named Westerfield—a doctor. At least I'd like to show it to him." He looked down at his watch with a concerned glance.

Rebecca seemed to catch that. "You could take me back to the estate; I could stay with the judge until you're done."

"Oh," Mark smiled, "I don't think that's necessary." He wasn't going to admit that, now that she knew his plans for the night, he'd really prefer to keep some distance between her and Hardcastle. "But I think you'd be better off at your own place than here. I really stuck the stick in the wasp's nest this morning. Not sure what might happen next."

"I think I'd be safe enough here," Rebecca said with a thoughtful frown. "I kind of thought maybe my dad had a reason for moving so suddenly, and the reason might have been Clement Grieves."

00000

He dropped her off at her own apartment, better safe than sorry. Fortunately, it was back in the direction he wanted to go. He found a public phone and was surprised to have his call answered by Westerfield himself.

"I was just getting ready to close up shop for the week. Only had a couple of post-holiday depressives to deal with," his voice was warm, and a surprising comfort. "Don't suppose it's something that simple for you?"

"No, more in the line of research," Mark admitted. "I don't know if you'd be able to help. I have some things, notes, that might have something to do with what happened to the judge." He hesitated, then added hopefully, "If you're interested."

"Can you bring them over now?" was Westerfield's almost immediate reply.

00000

Ten minutes later he was carefully placing the box on Westerfield's desk, hoping that the pile wasn't too intimidating in its unrefined state.

"Good thing I have the weekend free," the doctor mused, then he gestured McCormick to a chair.

"Sorry. We didn't know what might be important."

"No," Westerfield reached into the container and scooped up the topmost notebook, thumbing it open, "better to be thorough, might need all the context I can get. Oh, I see he writes like a doctor."

"He is . . . a Ph.D., that is—biochemistry. He disappeared the same night Hardcastle had his 'accident'."

Westerfield looked up from the page. "Really? My, my, that _is_ interesting. A _mystery_."

"I was very careful," McCormick assured him. "No one followed me here."

Westerfield started to laugh but stopped abruptly, after a glance at McCormick's entirely serious expression. "You think that—?"

"I dunno, Doc; we're looking at a start-up company that may be using mob money, a discovery that might fix Alzheimer's, but may not work as advertised, a missing scientist, and—did Hardcastle mention someone took a shot at us last week?"

Westerfield shook his head and looked down at the notebook he was holding, with a new element of interest. McCormick sat back and rubbed his face, blinking a couple of times.

"And how are you two holding up?" The doctor gave him a concerned look. "How's _he_ doing?"

"Oh, ah . . . better, I think." Mark stared at the box. He thought maybe the previous night was catching up with him. He sighed. "I dunno about that, either, Doc. Last night," McCormick shook his head wearily, "he had another dream. I think he's having them every night, but this must've been a new one."

"A dream that's actually a memory?"

"Yeah, a doozy. He was shot about two years ago, in the chest, almost died." Mark shook his head again. "Is that how it's gonna be? He only remembers the bad stuff? And why these two things?"

"Well," Westerfield put the notebook down and sat back a little. "I suspect he's remembered some other things as well. As for what, and why, I imagine it's the moments that had the most emotional impact for him. There's something called Hebbian Learning Theory—"

"What about his son's death; what about his wife?"

"I'm guessing he's remembered those things as well. Maybe those first—we really don't have a good idea of memory architecture, but clearly there's some sort of pattern."

"Last Saturday," McCormick murmured, more to himself than to the doctor.

"What happened then?" Westerfield leaned forward, fingers tented.

"Oh, he was talking about his son, his family . . . and he got really angry."

"At you?"

McCormick nodded. "_Very_ angry . . . said some things." The nod had turned into a quick shake of the head and, "I think we're past that now. But . . . maybe it was because he was remembering." It took him a moment to notice the silence from across the desk. He looked up only to see Westerfield looking right back at him. "What?" he asked, with a slightly defensive tone.

"I was just wondering," Westerfield mused.

"_What_?" McCormick asked suspiciously.

"If _you_ were angry." The doctor was giving him a steady gaze. "Do you _ever_ get angry?"

"Sure I do." McCormick frowned, "I'm angry as hell right now at whoever did this to him."

"No," Westerfield smiled gently, "I mean at _him_."

The silence that followed was palpable.

Finally Mark spoke; his voice was low and nearly flat, devoid of any recognizable emotion. "He put me in prison. I was very angry."

"Were you guilty?"

"I . . . don't know." There was another long silent moment. Then he added, quietly, "Either I was guilty, or he was wrong."

"It's called cognitive dissonance," Westerfield said, just as quietly. "I was wondering how you deal with it."

"I know what it's called," Mark said sharply. "I took a couple of psychology courses," the frown had deepened, "and, yeah, the way I deal with it is by _not_ dealing with it. Anyway," he added, "that's not the problem right now."

"Okay," Westerfield held his hands up placatingly, "I was just . . . curious."

"Well, now you know part of why I'm not too crazy about shrinks." Mark managed a tight smile.

Westerfield nodded in apparent understanding. "Well . . . if it ever stops working, I'm here." He took another look into the box. "But not this weekend." He smiled. "I'll be home getting some reading done."

"Anything you come up with that looks interesting," Mark was scribbling numbers down as he spoke, "this one you probably already have. It's the judge's. The other one is Frank Harper; he's a lieutenant with the LAPD. They can usually reach him through that number, no matter what. Please," he looked up as he passed the paper over, "_anything_."

"I'll do my best."

00000

It was well into the long winter twilight when McCormick pulled up the drive. He'd thought about it most of the way home and concluded amnesia had its advantages. After only ten days, Hardcastle couldn't possibly know his routine of parking the Coyote near the garage most of the time, and preferably _in_ it at night. This time he placed it well down the drive, facing out, all out of sight of the house itself.

With luck, the judge might still be in the basement, caught up in the career of Walter Gularis, though he thought the way things were going, more likely the judge and Frank would be sitting in the den, and the all-too-observant lieutenant would make some comment about the Coyote's absence.

Reality lay somewhere in between. Frank wasn't there; the judge was in the den. He had several files open in front of him with the contents sorted out. He looked up from his reading as McCormick slouched into the room and dropped wearily into a chair.

"I stopped by Westerfield's to show him the papers," McCormick answered the question that hadn't been asked. "Big box full. May take him all weekend." He was rubbing his temples. "He asked how you were . . . I told him 'better'."

"Better than you right now, at any rate," the judge was looking him over. "Did you eat yet?"

McCormick had to think about that one for a moment. "No," he finally said. "But what I really need is some coffee. And we gotta invite Sarah back; we're out of cookies." He pulled himself up a little straighter. "How's the research going?"

"Oh, interesting enough. You're right; Wally's a pretty big fish now, though he's still mostly in the loans and laundry department. But he knows how to collect a debt, and, if Grieves made promises he can't keep, he's right to be afraid of this guy."

"So what does that have to do with Dr. Henry being missing, and whatever the hell happened to you?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Still too many pieces missing."

Mark thought that one over a minute; he didn't think it would be wise to discuss how he intended to gather a few more of those pieces tonight.

"Ham or turkey?" The judge's question broke into his thought and almost made him jump.

"Ah, ham I think. Won't keep much longer."

00000

They ate in the kitchen, with McCormick almost dozing off a couple times over his food. The third time Hardcastle reached over and nudged him.

"I think you'd better hit the sack. I can take the watch tonight."

McCormick looked at him blearily. This was exactly what he'd hoped to accomplish, but without the desperate veracity. And, somehow, the judge volunteering for it made him feel even lower than he'd thought it would.

"If you get tired, wake me up, okay?"

He knew that wouldn't happen, not the way Hardcastle had been avoiding sleep lately. He felt the guilt drifting a little higher around him.

"Listen," he finally said, and then he paused, not sure exactly what he wanted to say—an apology maybe, but he wasn't sure for what.

_Afterwards, always apologize afterwards. Works better that way._ He got up slowly from the table and picked up his dishes to put them in the sink.

"Don't bother with these. I'll get them all tomorrow. Okay?"

Then he headed out the door to the gatehouse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Trudging up the walk to the gatehouse, McCormick tripped on the step and almost vaulted through the door. _Damn, I need some sleep,_ he thought, but knew there were a couple of things he had to take a look at before he passed out.

The couch was practically screaming at him to lie on it as he made his way up to the loft. The litany of a mental list that never changed and was permanently cemented to his brain made him keep going, even though he was past exhausted. Funny how some things stayed in memory, forever, no matter what. The clothes. Hanging in the back of the closet, like always. Nothing ever went into the pockets, and dry clean wrapping still on them. The shoes, the gloves, the hat, and last but not least, the little leather case that he had, on a few occasions, thought of getting rid of, but never did.

The door was still open, and everything was in its place like always, when he backed up and flopped onto the bed. Reaching over, he adjusted the alarm clock and his hand dropped back to his side. _It's the only way._

Those were the last thoughts he had before he crashed.

00000

The irritating buzzing finally reached through the darkness and McCormick's hand swatted at the clock till he hit the right button. His sleep had been dreamless and not nearly long enough. Lying on the bed, he was trying to figure out how to get his eyelids to stay up, wishing he had another three or four days to mull it over. He also was thinking that using a toothbrush could be a good thing.

Pondering the thought of actually getting up, he realized that there was light in the room. _I never even turned the lights off. _Another actuality hit him as he heard the faint sounds of the television. _I know I never turned it on last night._ Eyes open now, he slowly rose and looked over the railing.

The judge was sitting in front of the TV, shotgun at his side, watching something almost inaudible. Sensing movement from upstairs, he turned his head and looked in the younger man's direction.

"Finally found the right button?" The question had a definite caustic tone.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying desperately to think of something to say, McCormick turned and started down.

"Um, yeah," was all he could think of. He was not awake enough to deal with his houseguest. _What the hell is he doing here? This is not good._

McCormick missed the last step, and not so gracefully landed on his rear end. Not awake and flustered were bad signs.

Sitting up and staring bleakly over at the judge, the only thing that came out of his mouth were the words, "What are you doing here?"

Still sitting, but watching the kid, he asked, "You okay?"

Rolling his head to get a kink out of his neck, McCormick answered, "Yeah, but the pad under this carpet could be a little thicker." Getting up, he rubbed his backside and shuffled over to the couch where he sat down a bit too quickly. "Ow." And he rubbed the afflicted area again.

"You _sure_ you're okay?"

"I _said_ I was, didn't I?" Although he had reached a low level of grouchy awareness, he had a long way to go.

"What are you doing here? And what time is it?" Mark glanced at the TV; an old John Wayne movie was on. _That figures; even at Christmastime, in Hardcastleville, there would be a John Wayne movie. _

"I'm on guard duty. That's what I'm doing here. You set the alarm; you should know what time it is. What are _you_ doing?"

The voice in McCormick's head that usually helped him out at times like these was yelling, _Stall him—you've got to wake up. You're in trouble here, buddy! _Then the little voice added the fatal comment, _Do you think he knows what you're doing? _

Disconcerted, but desperately pretending not to be, he answered, "Huh?"

"Wake up, McCormick!" the judge yelled.

The loudness and tone of Hardcastle's voice was enough to raise Mark's level of consciousness, but the use of his last name, for the first time in what seemed like years, definitely did it.

"What did you say?" He wanted to make sure.

"Did your butt thump affect your ears? _I said, WAKE UP, McCormick!"_

His mouth almost upturned for an instant. _Now he's cookin! _

The upturn took a downturn when he remembered _why_ he had set the alarm and what he was planning on doing. Hardcastle sitting in his living room was definitely going to be a problem. While the use of his last name seeded new hope that the judge was coming back, it was also certain that the jurist almost always said his name in _that_ tone when he was ticked off or worried about something.

"Um, I was going to check to see if everything was okay around here." Not an outright lie; he _had_ beenplanning a quick look around.

"Well, I already did that a couple hours ago, and that's when I noticed your lights were on." Hardcastle sat forward in the chair. His eyes seemed to bore a hole right through the younger man. "And _while_ I was on my way over here, I observed one red race car missing from its usual parking space. When I haven't been sleeping well the last few nights, I've looked out my window. I've seen it in the same spot every night. Always. It _wasn't _tonight. Thought it might have been _stolen_, so I took a little walk." The look became more intense. "Found it." He paused a second for emphasis. "You mind telling me why it's parked where it is and the direction it's facing?"

_Shit._

Mark leaned back in his chair, contemplating the wood grain in the coffee table. "Well you never know when you might have to make a quick exit or something. Bad guys show up and then they try and get away…" Glancing up, he saw Hardcastle wasn't buying any of it.

"That the story you're gonna stick with?"

"Well, yes, I guess until I can come up with a better one." Rolling his head over to the back of the chair, he began staring at the ceiling.

"Damn, I knew it!" the judge exploded as he rose off the chair. "I thought you didn't lie to me." Any trust he had placed in the kid recently was teetering on a very thin line.

"I don't! Not about the important stuff anyway."

"And you don't think what you were going to do tonight is 'important'?"

Mark didn't like the inflection on that last word. But before he could say anything, the judge took off again.

"You were gonna sneak out of here tonight and go break into Symnetech." It wasn't a question.

Blowing the breath he was holding, McCormick replied. "Yes."

"You wouldn't wait until we see what Westerfield and Frank come up with."

Opening his mouth to reply, Mark was immediately cut off again.

"If they do come up with something, a search warrant is the way to go, and you know it."

Search warrant would be a good idea, but where the hell would you get one this time of the year on a weekend? And it probably would be too late, anyway.

"I thought you were rehabilitated! Of all the stupid, harebrained, idiotic ideas. Do you have any idea of what could happen to you if you get caught? You're going to law school, for Chrissakes!" The judge was up and pacing.

If it weren't for the seriousness of the situation, Mark might have been amused with this little lecture—pure Milton C. Hardcastle, in the flesh. But the reality was that he knew he was in deep right now.

"I'm supposed to _trust _you. I really was beginning to think it was possible that I could. I've been reading the case reports. Do you know how many times you must have done something this stupid since you've been here?"

Not really slowing down, he went on, "And how many times have I been dragged into it, too?" Whirling to look at Mark he added bitterly, "How many do I _not_ know about?" He waved his hand. "Don't even answer that right now!"

Really rolling now, he went on, "It's two o'clock in the morning on a Friday night on a holiday weekend. Cops are pulling double duty out looking for people having too much fun. Driving around in that billboard you call a car would be very inconspicuous, wouldn't it? The chances of you being seen are doubled in that thing . . . no, _tripled_. Did you even _think _about that?"

Well, no, Mark admitted to himself; he hadn't thought about it that much.

Running his fingers through his hair and sitting down hard, the judge shook his head. "You can't continue to break the law while you say you're trying to uphold it. This is _why_ I can't believe that I ever got into any of this. I never believed in breaking the law. Never did it before." He looked hard at the younger man. "You know I was sitting in the den tonight looking at your gift. Thinking how true those words were. I was thinking how much they've meant to me over the years. I was thinking how much I must have meant to you, if you really thought it was a gift from the heart. And now this!

"What the hell are you thinking? Don't you have _anything to say_?"

Still giving the ceiling a critical view, McCormick sighed. Part of him wanted to blow up too. He wanted to rant and get a few things off his chest. He was tired. Physically tired and mentally exhausted. It had taken everything he had to sit still. But he did.

He lowered his head slowly and looked at the judge. "You done now?"

"For the moment, yes; in the long run, probably not, but go ahead."

Mark began, "Look, if you think I've done a B&E, or anything else illegal, on every single case we've ever taken on, _fine_. That's not true by a long shot, and under normal circumstances, you'd know that." Sitting forward now and building a little steam himself, he went on, "But these _aren't_ normal circumstances, so I guess you don't have to believe me or anybody else that happens to walk through the door, calls you on the phone, writes you a letter, or does anything to get through that thick skull of yours.

"I _have_ learned a lot about the law and how to do things since I've been here. I don't take law school lightly, either. I've worked pretty damn hard at it. I never wanted to let down the one person who used to believe in me, and that's _you._"

He flicked a glance in Hardcastle's direction, but didn't leave it there long enough to see the reaction, if there was any. "We've done most everything by the book. Okay, occasionally I have shaved the edges off a few corners. But it's always been for the right reason. And you want to know what? I've never been proud of it, either. But it was the only way I knew how."

He stood and walked over to the window and stared out at the darkness.

"We know that Henry probably has the answer to all of this. But we don't know where the hell he is. We don't even know if he's alive. Grieves is in this and is dirty all the way up to his fake hairline. The answers are in that building, Judge. We _need _those answers. I'm tired of waiting for them. The fact that the geeks over at Symnetech haven't put it all together yet is nothing short of lucky. And I'm not feeling so lucky these days."

Mark turned and looked at the judge. "Do you think that they will just leave Henry's stuff where it is? With what's at stake? I sure don't. The time to move is _now,_ before they do. You don't have time to wait, either."

The only sound in the room was the shootout scene in the movie. Neither man dropped his gaze from the other. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Hardcastle broke eye contact. He rose from the chair and headed for the door. He paused when he reached it.

"You know, I'm not feeling so lucky these days either. But what you're planning on doing is not the way to deal with it. Everybody, including you, says you can be trusted. I'm asking you not to go anywhere tonight. Your heart may be in the right place, but your head sure as hell isn't. If you can't honor my request, then before you go out tonight, pack up your stuff and take it with you."

Mark didn't know how long he stood at the window after the judge left. The coolness of the windowpane felt good across his forehead. Staring out into the night, he felt like his head was ready to explode. Pro or con, plus or minus, right or wrong, any way he looked at it, everything added up to the same thing.

_Hell of a time to give me the final exam, Hardcase._

00000

McCormick awoke with a start; he had dozed off in the chair. His head was pounding, and he wished it was too much tequila, instead of stress and exhaustion, that had caused the headache that was pulverizing his brain.

Starting with two, and adding two more, he swallowed some aspirin and hit the shower.

Deciding that discretion was not the better part of valor that morning, he headed over to start breakfast. He knew it was early but didn't care. As he crossed the drive, a slow moving, non-descript sedan caught his eye. For McCormick, it was just as flashy as the Coyote, standing out like a beacon. Slowing his steps, he saw the car stop; it seemed to be waiting. He hesitated for a second, then took off toward the gate. If they were friends sent by Frank, he'd be relieved; if they weren't, at least he'd have more ground to stand on.

The sedan suddenly bolted and sped down the road just as McCormick was nearing the gate—not enough time for a plate number. _Damn!_ _Well at least they weren't shooting at us this time. _He spun around and ran to the house.

"Judge! Judge!" He was yelling as he charged into the front entryway.

"McCormick! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The judge was at the study door, shotgun raised. He was awake, but he looked like somebody who had also spent the night upright in a chair.

Out of breath and panting, Mark gasped out, "We've had company. I'm pretty sure they knew they weren't invited."

"What? Who? When? I didn't hear anything!" Hardcastle was shouting as he headed for the door, shotgun still in hand.

"Sedan, driving by. Didn't see them. Took off. Just now," were the cryptic answers. Mark was totally spent. He wondered if this was one of the first phases of a heart attack.

The judge was out the door—Mark two steps behind him, still breathing hard.

No sedan. Hardcastle turned and looked at him with a glint of suspicion in his eye.

"Upping the ante?" he asked dryly.

McCormick had gotten his breath partly back. "It was," he panted, "a gray sedan. _Really_."

The judge was still giving him that look. Maybe it was sheer fatigue, but, for a moment, Mark found himself doubting his own memory.

"I suppose it might have been an unmarked squad car," he said uncertainly. "Gray like that. Nothing fancy." He sighed. Then his eyes narrowed down a little. "The hell it was, the way it took off outta of here." He stood his ground for a moment, staring at the older man.

Hardcastle twitched first. It was almost a look of chagrin. "Well, you haven't called me crazy," he admitted gruffly, "so I guess the least I can do is return the favor."

Mark was looking at the judge with an amused expression.

"What?" asked Hardcastle. He looked down at himself. His ancient bathrobe was not tied, and he was standing there in his shorts and tee shirt. Hastily he grabbed the belt on the robe and tied it. "I didn't have time to get dressed, you know."

McCormick smiled to himself as he went up the steps and headed for the kitchen. "I _really_ need some coffee."

Hardcastle decided to follow.

The kitchen was bright with early morning sunshine. The judge sat down at the table while McCormick busied himself with the coffee maker. He turned to the judge and asked, "Extra scoops this morning?" holding out the can.

"Yeah, make it two."

_Two?_ Oh, he'd had a rough night.

As fascinating as it was to watch coffee brew, Mark knew there was a conversation that needed to be had. He ambled over to the table.

Sitting down and facing the judge, he almost let out a snicker. Even though the judge had managed to straighten his robe, his hair was all over the place and he had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. McCormick would have laughed, but although he had taken a shower and cleaned up, he probably didn't look any better.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I didn't go anywhere last night."

"I know."

"Aren't I going to get the old 'see, I knew you would see the light of day lecture'?"

"No."

"The 'at least for once in your life you've listened'?"

"No."

"Not even 'so you're finally getting the hang of right and wrong'?"

"Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Looking confused, concerned, and a bit relieved all at the same time, Mark sat back and said, "Okay, um, well then, I guess I'll get breakfast going."

"Just a minute."

_Aha! I knew it. Here it comes. _

"In some ways, I just may happen to think you're right."

"I'm right?" He was taken aback, "Wait a minute, I'm _never _right."

"Well, probably not usually, but in this case you are."

"Right about what?" He wanted to take credit where credit was due.

"The 'geeks', as you called them, over at Symnetech. They don't have all the pieces. Whatever those pieces are and what they're for is just another part of our problem. Something is missing. And they want it." The judge rose and went to the window. "Maybe they even need Henry himself, I don't know. But until we know exactly _what_, we'd be stupid to go looking."

McCormick thought, _what the hell does he mean, 'to go looking'? _Then it also dawned on him that the judge said 'our problem'.

"Well." Hardcastle slapped his hands on the table, "While you get breakfast, I'm going to get cleaned up. Hey, while you're at it, get the paper will ya? And check for yesterday's mail, I never picked that up."

He was out of the room even before Mark could say a word.

00000

Tucking the paper under his arm, McCormick opened the mailbox and pulled out the mail. He had taken a stroll down the driveway, and checked the road and the area around the main gate before returning to the house and pulling the mail from the box. Never hurt to be on the lookout for unexpected company. All was quiet.

Thumbing through the mail there were the usual bills, _Nobody gets a Christmas vacation from them,_ junk mail and a few straggling Christmas cards. Noticeably different was one padded brown envelope addressed to the judge. There was no return address. Studying it and frowning, Mark put it on the top of the pile.

Hardcastle was already back in the kitchen when he came in. Coffee was steaming in cups on the table. The radio was on with the nine o'clock morning news.

"Hey, Judge, look at this." Mark handed over the envelope.

The judge took it and said, "No return address?" and started to open it.

"Wait!" Mark yelled.

"What?" Hardcastle yelled back.

Looking a little sheepish, McCormick faltered, "Well, maybe we should have Frank look it over. Could be a letter bomb or something."

"A _letter bomb?_ Your imagination is definitely getting away with you." And with that, he started to open it. McCormick stepped back and closed his eyes. "Will you stop being ridiculous!"

He thought, A_t least I'll have fingers left over if it is_.

"What the hell _is_ this?" asked the judge.

Mark opened one eye, cautiously, then the other. Hardcastle was holding the object in his hand.

McCormick reached out and took it. "It's a computer disk."

"A computer what?"

"_Disk_. It's something that stores information from a computer." Mark was staring down at a label that read, 'Second trial data, dose-related side effects.' "This was Henry's." His eyes met Hardcastle's.

The phone rang. Hardcastle picked it up on the second ring.

"Hello?" he gave McCormick a sharp look. "Yes . . . special delivery? Well, I got something in the mail this morning, too." He looked up at Mark and mouthed the words 'Rebecca Henry'. "Uh-huh," he added, into the receiver, "Why don't you come on over here and we'll see what we've got."

He finished saying good-bye and hung up. Mark was leaning on the counter with a look of intensely impatient curiosity on his face.

"_Well?_"

Hardcastle was holding the floppy up between two fingers. "She says she got one of these disk things, too. Or her father did. It was in his mailbox this morning; she stopped by to check on things."

_To see if he'd turned up. _Mark frowned, wondering how he was going to face her this morning with nothing to show from last night. "Then this _isn't_ Dr. Henry's," he said with disappointment.

"Might still be," Hardcastle looked up, still appearing a little bemused by the thing in his hand. He sighed, and laid it carefully on the counter. "Henry had some sort of an assistant, new one every term, sent over by the university. They'd have a computer at the university, right? Maybe it's from _him_. But why'd he send it here? There's no note in there?"

"The 'note' is probably on here." Mark pointed down to the disk. "We just gotta find a computer. Westerfield might have one, either that or Frank can use one down at the station." He didn't notice the judge's puzzled look. He went on, thinking out loud. "Too bad you got rid of yours."

"_I _had one?" Hardcastle sputtered in disbelief.

"Yeah, a couple years ago." Mark was still speaking distractedly. "It was pretty damn glitchy, though."

"What the _hell _was I doing with a computer?"

Mark caught the tone and finally looked up. Hardcastle was now staring at him in frank disbelief.

"Ah . . ." Mark realized, with a sudden jolt of panic, that the story of the stolen files, and the need to transfer them back to hard copy after they'd been recovered, was yet another thing he didn't want to go into. _There's a lot of those._

He smiled thinly. The pause had become a little strained. The judge was glaring. _Well, if you're gonna lie, you'd better hurry up about it._

"For your files," he said, thinking it sounded pretty weak. He'd managed to keep it within the bounds of half-truth, though. Hardcastle was still glaring. Mark swallowed once and plunged ahead, "A guy had stolen them."

"_All_ of them?" Hardcastle looked doubtful. "There's a_ lot_ of file cabinets down there. Where the hell was I?"

"You'd gone to Hawaii, a judge's convention."

"And _you_?"

McCormick winced. "Here, looking after things."

The judge's 'harrumph' said it all.

00000

Ms. Henry showed up a little after nine, looking pale and unrested, but slightly hopeful. Mark greeted her at the door. Her eyebrows went up and she whispered a quick, "Did you—?" before he cut her off with a small shake of the head.

Hardcastle was behind him, standing in the doorway of the den.

She dug in her purse, seeming a little flustered, and pulled out a padded envelope, similar to the one that had arrived at Gull's Way.

"No return address on this one, either," Mark said as he took it from her and glanced down at it briefly before passing it to the judge.

"Same handwriting on the envelope. Same postmark, December 23rd." Hardcastle pulled the disk out, "Same title. No note?"

Rebecca shook her head. "I think it must have been something my father was expecting, and probably the intern was in a hurry. He might have just wanted to finish up and get it in the mail before the holiday. Dad must've asked him to make a copy for you."

Hardcastle nodded, casting a look at Mark that seemed to say, '_See, we're making progress_.'

"Okay, I'll call Westerfield." Mark took the disk back. "See if I can run them over to him today. Maybe he's made some headway on the other stuff." He was avoiding Rebecca Henry's eyes. But he did fix the judge with a look. _But not enough progress. You spend the morning with her._

Then he ducked past them both and out the door.

00000

Rebecca had watched him leave, with a troubled look on her face. The judge took her elbow gently and steered her into the den. He got her seated and then took his own place, wearily.

"You knew what he was planning?" he asked, without any preliminary niceties.

"I . . ." Rebecca looked startled. "Oh, he didn't want me to mention it around you." She cast a quick look toward the door.

Hardcastle sighed and shook his head. She'd manage to find something even more damning to say than a simple 'yes'. The kid wasn't too good at picking accessories-before-the-fact.

"Okay," he sighed again, "you can tell him I gave you the third degree." He slumped forward a little. "What if he'd been caught? He's a two-time loser. If they'd found him in there; they would've thrown the book at him." Another slow shake of the head. "God, what were you two thinking?"

"_I _was thinking of my father," Rebecca Henry's eyes had grown a little darker; she was leaning forward, too. "And he was thinking of _you_." She was holding her ground, now. "If there's something over there that will help find my father, and help you get your memory back—"

"I'm not saying we're giving up. I'm just saying we try to do it _legal_ . . . and Mark winding up in the hoosegow isn't going to help your father _or_ me." Hardcastle frowned. "Did you _ask_ him to do it?"

Ms. Henry sat back, a little primly. She shook her head. "No, I didn't. But I sure as heck didn't say 'no' when he offered." She paused a moment. "And it seemed like he knew what he was doing."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle said dryly. "Lots of practice."

"You said he's been arrested before?" she asked quietly.

"Arrested, convicted, and imprisoned," the judge replied flatly.

Rebecca had a look of concentration on her face. She didn't appear to be shocked or dismayed. She finally raised her eyes and said, "So that's what he meant."

"What?"

"Yesterday, when we were out looking at the beach. You were in here with Lieutenant Harper." She bit her lip lightly. "He said you two were discussing his shortcomings."

This got a short, explosive laugh from the judge. Ms. Henry looked startled.

"Damn," Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "He doesn't just know where the extension cords are, does he?"

And Rebecca Henry gave him a puzzled look.

00000

Mark took the two disks and their envelopes back to the gatehouse, glad enough to get away from both Rebecca and the judge. He checked his watch—nine-thirty; it seemed too early to bother Westerfield on a Saturday at home, but it was different with Frank.

Mark ran the odds and dialed the office number first. He was rewarded with the sound of Harper's perpetually world-weary greeting.

"Hi, Frank," McCormick replied, trying to keep the anxious fatigue out of his own tone.

"I was about to call you," the lieutenant replied.

"What's up?" Mark sat forward a little; the eagerness was back in his voice. "You got something?"

"Well, yeah. What's your blood type?"

"Huh?" Mark frowned; then he said, "A-positive." It was the quick response of someone who had been informed of the fact on more than one occasion.

"Well, now that's kinda interesting."

"_Frank_?" Mark was not in the mood for laconic mystery.

"The lab guys just sent over a preliminary report on Milt's truck. No evidence of sabotage, by the way—"

"Yeah, but what's with the blood?" Mark interrupted impatiently.

"Got a couple of traces from the driver's side of the windshield; they're A- positive."

"That's his," Mark said with calm certainty. He'd been on the donor list for the judge two years ago.

"And then there's some other traces, very small amounts, over on the passenger side, on the dash. Nothing major. They're O-negative."

"Rebecca's here. Maybe she'll know her dad's type. She's up at the main house."

"And you're not?" Frank asked, curiously.

"I'm . . . taking a break." Mark reached up and rubbed his temple with his free hand. "Listen, Frank," he changed gears deftly, "did you send anyone over here, an unmarked sedan, this morning?"

"No, nobody. Why? You had some more trouble?"

"It was," Mark closed his eyes and rubbed his temple a little harder, sorting out the details, "a Grand Prix, two doors, gray. Probably an '85. I didn't get the plate."

"No shots fired?" Frank said, with some concern.

"Not this time," Mark said, "but I was still pretty sure he wasn't one of your guys. He took off kinda fast."

"And no numbers?" Harper sighed plaintively. "Not even a couple?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep last night."

"And you didn't call me right away on this? How long's it been?"

"'Bout an hour," Mark muttered. "Listen, something else came up, right after. We got a delivery, a little package."

"And you _opened_ it?" Frank asked, asperity tingeing the question.

Mark sighed again. "Listen, Frank, have you ever _tried_ to keep him from doing whatever he damn well pleases?"

Silence from the other end.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mark said wearily. "So, turns out it's a computer disk. Rebecca got one out of her father's mailbox, as well. We don't have any way of looking at them here. I was going to call Westerfield next, see if he's got a computer. If he doesn't, I may need to bring them down to you."

"It's _evidence_," Frank interjected. "Of course you need to bring it to me."

"Evidence of what?" Mark shot back. "I thought nobody was even sure a crime was being committed. Nobody can get a damn search warrant, at any rate." The temple rubbing didn't seem to be helping any. Mark took a deep breath. "Anyway, it's probably notes that Henry's assistant was typing up for him. We don't even know who the guy is. He's not from Symnetech.

"And . . . and I _need_ to get those disks to someone who might understand what's on them. That's more important than the damn case right now. Can't either of you understand that?" It was only when he'd finished speaking that Mark realized how loud he had gotten.

There was a pause from Frank's end, then a cautious, "You okay over there?"

"Yeah," Mark muttered. "We're fine. Just . . . tired, that's all."

"Well, I think with everything that's been happening, I can justify putting a squad car over by you guys for a couple of nights. Maybe that way you can get some rest."

"Ah," Mark said abruptly, "no, Frank, we really don't need that."

"Why _not_?" Frank asked suspiciously.

"We're _fine_. Really." Mark tried to project an air of quiet reassurance, rather that sounding like a guy who might still be considering going over the wall, and wanted as few witnesses as possible. "If you want to do something, rustle up a subpoena for the University, the head of whichever department was giving out loaner grad students to the Institute. Henry had one; I'd like to know his name."

"I'll look into it," Harper said, the suspicion not entirely gone from his voice.

"Thanks, Frank," Mark tried not to sound relieved to be at the end of the conversation. "I'll get back to you about the blood type."

They said their good-byes and Mark hung up, leaning back against the sofa and staring at the ceiling. The call to Westerfield was next on the agenda, and he sure as hell wanted to be a little more _composed_ for that one.

After a few moments he sat up and dialed again. He got Westerfield's answering machine, but as he started to speak, the man himself broke in.

"Sorry, Mark. I leave it on when I'm working." The psychiatrist sounded tired, too, but not impatient. "I hope you're not expecting any miracles of elucidation yet." Then there was a brief pause. "Or is this about something else?"

That last question sounded more than merely professional. Mark could see why Neely had recommended this guy. McCormick thought the part of him that kept it all under control was feeling a little beat down right now, and answering a simple 'yes' to Westerfield's question was a real temptation.

_Someone to talk to._

_That used to be Hardcastle._

_Used to be._

Mark pulled himself together. _Composed_. "Yeah, Doc, there's something else. More information, I hope. We've got some computer disks we think might be helpful. You got a way of reading them?"

"Depends. I have a Commodore here—just using it as a glorified typewriter. We'll have to see what kind of files are on the disk. Can you bring it over?"

"Yes, right away if you want." Mark liked this guy more and more, though that same beat-down part of him was pretty sure it would be dangerous for him to spend too much time around the man, especially right now. "I can drop it off in about a half-hour."

"Okay," Westerfield sounded a little distracted, like he was already back at his reading. Mark said good-bye quickly, wanting him to get on with it.

He leaned back again, then he lifted his head suddenly, as he realized his eyes had been drifting shut. _Dammit_. He got up, stretched, picked up the two disks, and headed back to the house.

00000

Hardcastle heard the two perfunctory taps on the front door just before it opened, and somehow he found it more irritating than no knock at all. _He pushes the limits._ A sharp, worried look from Ms. Henry made him aware that he was scowling. But he didn't have time to rearrange his face before Mark was in the doorway to the room.

He must've caught the look of displeasure, too. He took a half step back and glanced aside at Rebecca, as if that might explain things. Hardcastle caught the little half-shrug she gave him.

The kid cleared his throat. "Talked to Frank; the sedan wasn't one of his guys. Talked to Westerfield, no big insights yet, but he's waiting for these." Mark held up the disks. "I thought I'd run them over to him." He hesitated, and then, "If that's okay?"

Hardcastle nodded once. He'd managed to ditch the scowl. He didn't know where it had come from anyway, but the effect had been fairly impressive. He thought maybe he'd caught a whiff of evasion in the quick way Mark had flitted over his conversation with Frank. _Now you're just getting paranoid_.

"Okay, be careful," Hardcastle added perfunctorily.

Mark was smiling now, though it looked like there was a little edge to it. "Aw, come on, Judge. _I'm_ the one who thinks it's dangerous to hang around psychiatrists."

"No, the sedan, you idiot," Hardcastle said gruffly. "You spot it again, you find a phone and call Frank, okay?" The judge frowned. "I'm surprised he didn't want to send a black and white over here when you told him about that, just to raise the profile a little."

Mark didn't say anything to this. His gaze had dropped a little lower.

"He offered, huh?" There was no immediate response from the younger man. Hardcastle's scowl was back. "Kinda hard to plan any midnight excursions when the cops are parked outside your doorstep, huh?"

Mark let out a long breath. "Look, Hardcase, I didn't go anywhere last night, but I swear, there's no reason why I shouldn't have, if I'm going to get in just as much trouble for _thinking_ about it."

There was a certain undeniable truth to that, Hardcastle had to admit, and he dismissed the kid with a fairly innocuous 'harrumph' and a shooing motion.

"Oh," Mark looked over at Ms. Henry again as he turned to leave, "what's your father's blood-type?"

Rebecca froze where she sat and her face went two shades paler. Mark fumbled in the realization of what he'd said, how it might be taken, "The evidence techs . . ." He wasn't helping matters much.

_He must be even tireder than he looks, _Hardcastle grimaced.

"They found a _very_ tiny amount of blood, the passenger side, his truck," Mark gestured at the judge with his thumb. "_Specks,_" he added, better late than never.

Rebecca Henry was breathing again. "He's a universal donor," she exhaled. "O- negative."

"Bingo," Mark said intently. "Then I think we know where he was that Monday night."

00000

McCormick had heaved a sigh of relief as he finally made it back out to the front porch, but he couldn't fully relax, even once he'd gotten behind the wheel of the Coyote. He was half of a mind to ask Frank to send the squad car over tonight—at least_ Harper_ had believed the story about the sighting of the sedan—but he still wanted to leave his options open. Hell, Hardcase might put the call in to the lieutenant, anyway, just to spite him. It had gotten that bad.

_You could leave._

Mark shook his head, a combination of denial and exhaustion. He pulled into the drive of the address Westerfield had given him. He sat for a moment, eyes briefly closed. _Composed_. Then he hiked himself out of the Coyote, disks in hand, earnest smile plastered on his face.

00000

Hardcastle excused himself from the room and was in the kitchen almost before he heard the Coyote pull out. He got Frank on the first ring.

"You guys aren't exchanging information anymore?" was Frank's terse reply to the judge's greeting.

"I just got done talking to him," Hardcastle replied gruffly. "He told you what happened this morning?"

"Yeah, the '85 Grand Prix in front of your place—jeez, I like a witness who knows his makes and models," Frank added, appreciatively. "But I reamed him out about the delay. How do you guys expect me to do anything when you don't keep me in the loop?"

"Well," the judge swallowed once, guiltily, "that mighta been my fault." Hardcastle frowned. "I sorta blew him off on that one."

There was a moment's silence from the other end. Then Frank spoke, sounding a little puzzled, "Milt, I gotta tell you, when it comes to ID'ing cars, it's hard to beat Mark. What the hell made you think he'd screw up something like that?"

"Ah . . . thought he might be exaggerating a little, on account of . . ." the judge paused, wondering why this was all coming a little hard.

"He tried to make another move on Symnetech HQ last night, huh?" Frank finished for him, sounding not at all surprised. "You thought maybe he was trying to justify it?" The lieutenant merely sighed wearily. "Listen, you tell him as soon as we've got probable cause, I'll get us a warrant." There wasn't any shock or anger in Frank's voice. He didn't sound like he was talking about accommodating a would-be burglar.

"Frank—"

"And you tell him if he _does_ stumble across anything interesting in the meantime, would he please wipe his fingerprints off it before he puts it in a plain envelope and slips it under my door?"

"Frank, this isn't funny."

"It never is. Scares the living daylights out of me every time I hear he's done it. I think that's why you usually don't tell me . . . Come to think of it, that's probably why he doesn't tell _you_."

Hardcastle spent a long, silent moment considering this. He finally said, "Listen, Frank, what did he say when you offered to send a car over here?"

"Oh," Frank chuckled, "he told you about that, huh?"

"Not entirely."

"Yeah, well that's how I figured he'd already made a run at it, because he got a little coy when I offered some surveillance. Whadya do, threaten to yank his allowance when you caught him trying to sneak out?"

"No," Hardcastle replied quietly, "I told him if he left, he shouldn't plan on coming back."

Dead silence from the other end. Then, after a moment, Frank said, just as quietly, "I think I should send that car over. It shouldn't come down to that."

"No," the judge said with grim seriousness, "he'll decide for himself. He's not on parole anymore."

00000

Westerfield opened the door shortly after the first ring, as if he'd been waiting. He ushered Mark into a well-appointed and quiet home—practical, but not stark; McCormick was vaguely reminded of Dr. Henry's apartment, writ large.

"In here." He took the disks from Mark and led him back to another room, this one a little more cluttered, a working office. The doctor's 'glorified typewriter' took up most of a side table, with an office chair pulled up to it, and a stack of manuals alongside.

Henry's notebooks were scattered and open on the main desk. There was a yellow pad, densely covered with jotting that looked to be Westerfield's own. Mark eyed it hopefully.

Westerfield caught the look. "More guesses than certainties. It's starting to shape up a bit, though." Then the doctor frowned. He was studying his guest more closely. "You look like shit," he concluded, making that, at least, sound like a certainty.

Mark smiled. "Now _there's_ a medical phrase you don't hear very often."

"Well, it's Saturday." Westerfield's own smile was rueful. "I'm just a fellow human-being . . . and you do."

McCormick felt tired enough to believe it was true.

Westerfield pointed him to a chair and said, "Lemme have a crack at this." He fed one of the disks into the slot and sat down, flexing his fingers back like a pianist as the machine whirred and clicked. "Mind you, the damn thing's glitchy as hell. Half the time I don't know _what's_ wrong with it."

Westerfield bent over the keyboard and tapped out a command. "I think _someday_ these machines may be useful," he muttered, and then he looked over his shoulder. "We've got a few minutes while it loads; if you feel like you need a psychiatrist."

Mark's laugh was short and harsh. "God, Doc, that's blunt." He wiped his eyes. "If I did, it'd be you."

"Well," Westerfield was gazing at him steadily, "don't be so sure you don't." He paused, and then asked, "What happened since yesterday?"

This time there was no smile. "Things got a little tense again," Mark said with a vague gesture. "A difference of opinion on how to approach the investigation."

"And he said—?"

"'My way or the highway,'" McCormick answered bitterly.

"And you?"

"Well, it's his way for now," Mark exhaled, "but I think it might come to the other." He was staring at the pile of papers on the desk. "He's wrong, though," he muttered, saying nothing more for a minute. Westerfield didn't fill in the space with banalities, for which he was grateful. Then McCormick straightened up a little and lifted his chin, catching the man's gaze full on. "You know, Doc, it's only the people you let get close to you, who can really hurt you."

"You believe that?" Westerfield asked.

Mark nodded once, slowly. "Yeah, guess I always have . . . It's just that I'd forgotten."

00000

Hardcastle drifted back toward the den. Rebecca Henry was still sitting as he'd left her, her gaze pensive and unfocused. He cleared his throat in the doorway. She glanced up at him momentarily and gave him a brief, tight smile.

"You settled things?" she asked quietly. "Or is he still in trouble?"

"Not _yet_," he replied cryptically.

"I can leave, if you want," Ms. Henry said, a little coolly.

The judge shrugged. "Might want to stay. They might find something on those 'disks'. We might be asking Frank for a search warrant."

"'Might.' '_Might._'" she dropped her voice a tone lower, and gritted her teeth in apparent frustration. "You _might _get your warrant. My father_ might_ still be alive." She looked at him angrily. "Don't you even care? He came to _you_."

Hardcastle blinked once, taken aback. "I do care. I always did." He frowned. "I still do." He hesitated again. "God, though it seems like everything I cared about is gone . . . All that's left is the damn thorns."

00000

"There we go."

Westerfield's sudden words jarred McCormick from a near doze.

"Got something?" he edged forward in his seat. The computer screen was showing some text now, a list, white on black.

"Files," Westerfield said with some satisfaction. "Lots of them. Looks like we're in luck. This is WordStar. I have that one. Ahh, here." He tapped a couple of keys. The screen changed. "Got a note here." Westerfield leaned forward and read it out loud, "'Dr. Henry, Here's the data, transcribed, from the last two runs. I put the scatter plots in appendix A. Got a couple outliers there, might need to recheck the source data. Sent a second copy to that PCH address, as requested. I'll be back after the first—have a nice holiday. E. Botts'." Westerfield looked over his shoulder. "The second disk is a copy, then."

"Yeah," Mark replied," that's what we thought. So, what's on them?" he added impatiently, gesturing Westerfield back to the screen.

The older man smiled. "Did you hear the part where I said, '_lots_ of files'? This may take a while."

Mark frowned. "Can't you tell me _anything_ so far?"

Westerfield gave him a sympathetic look, and rolled his chair back from the side desk, turning toward his main base of operations. "Okay, you promise not to hold me to any of this?"

Mark nodded, leaning forward again.

The doctor picked the yellow pad off the desk, scanning it quickly. Then he propped it on one knee as he turned back to the younger man.

"It's some sort of glycoprotein, Henry is calling it a 'mnemotroph' and it may work to enhance long term potentiation in hippocampal substructures related to memory formation."

Westerfield stopped short. McCormick was staring blankly.

"Did you understand any of what I just said?" he asked mildly.

"Um, yeah," Mark replied, "the first part—'It's some sort of'," he quoted dryly.

Westerfield laughed.

"Well, I'm a little short on sleep lately," McCormick protested.

"Okay," the older man leaned back a little and exhaled, starting again more slowly. "'Mnemotroph' just means something that supports memory. The hippocampus is the part of the brain we think deals with making memories, and a glycoprotein, well . . . it's a glycoprotein." He sighed.

"So, you're saying Henry had found a chemical that would improve people's memory?" Mark issued a long low whistle. "He'd really found it? My God, how valuable would that be?" He shook his head slowly and muttered to himself, "Worth even more than an antidepressant, I'll bet."

Westerfield frowned for a moment. "Hell, yes. Thousands of applications. And the thing is," he added thoughtfully, "once it was out there, no one could afford to be without it. It'd be like anabolic steroids for the brain."

"Doc," Mark looked over at the notebooks with a new respect, "I think this might be valuable enough to kill for."

"Well," Westerfield shrugged, "not exactly. That was just notebook numbers one through three. After that, things got a little sticky." The doctor consulted his pad again. "This'd be about six months ago; Dr. Henry seemed to be working under some kind of time constraints here—"

"I'll bet."

Westerfield nodded. "Anyway, there were worms in the apple—the stuff doesn't work unless you can get it to the right place; the hippocampus is a deep-brain structure, and there's something called the 'blood-brain barrier', it's a natural boundary between the blood stream and brain tissue, keeps some of the crud out, though not caffeine, thank God."

"So, it didn't work?" Mark looked puzzled

"Well, it did when he put holes in the rats' skulls and threaded a little catheter in. Stuff had a short half-life, though, required a constant infusion. And it was a little hard on the rats—infections, bleeding, that sort of thing."

Mark made a face. "Not a good alternative to just pulling an all-nighter right before the exam." Then he went back to frowning. "So, what the hell is all the fuss about?"

"Ah, well, science marches forward," Westerfield smiled grimly. "In phase two of his research— that's notebooks four, five and six—Dr. Henry was looking for a carrier molecule, one that would allow the mnemotroph to get into the brain, better yet, one that would help it _bind_ to the hippocampus."

"Did he find it?"

"I think so. At least _he_ thought so. There's a certain amount of cautious rejoicing near the end of notebook six." Westerfield paused. "Then something happened."

"What?"

Westerfield exhaled. "One of the Institute's lab technicians died suddenly. A guy named Bill Hardwick. Not clear exactly what happened. He was helping Henry with the rat studies."

"He died in the lab?"

"No, I don't think so. But he died suddenly; that was a couple of months ago. After that, there's a break in the notes, a few weeks. Then Henry started up again, very brief, very pressured. He didn't sound happy."

"And that's it? "Mark asked plaintively. "Did he have something, or didn't he?"

"Maybe the disks will add something," Westerfield looked up from his pad. "But I'll need a little time."

Mark nodded slowly. Then his chin sunk down.

The older man gave him a concerned look. "Want some coffee?"

"No, I'd . . . I'd better let you get on with it. I've got another stop to make." Mark looked up, fixing the man with a steady look, as if to elicit a promise. "You'll call me, as _soon_ as you have anything more?"

Westerfield gave him a small smile. "Where can I reach you?"

Mark smiled back, equally thinly. "At the estate . . . for now at least."

00000

Mark drove down to the station without calling first, fairly certain that Frank would be there, but also deciding that he wouldn't be too upset if he were only able to leave a message. Frank was there, and the look he gave Mark, as the younger man slouched in, convinced Mark that he really must look as bad as Westerfield had said.

"The blood type's a match," he announced without so much as a 'hello'.

"Figures," Frank responded, dropping his eyes back to the papers before him on his desk. "I had a little chat with the truck driver Milt ran into that night. Still seems like a straight-up guy to me. It was one of those big delivery vans, barely had a scratch on it, he says. Anyway, turns out he tried to take some evasive maneuvers, when he figured out Milt's truck wasn't going to stop. He wound up with the cab of his truck up on the sidewalk, between a light pole and a building. He couldn't get out in that position, and he couldn't back up without maybe doing more damage to Milt's vehicle, so he sat it out until the police got there."

Frank fiddled with a pen that was lying in front of him. Then he looked up again at Mark, half an apology in his expression.

"He says there were some 'good Samaritans' back by Milt's truck; he didn't get a real good look at them. They were crowded around the passenger side. Maybe three, four guys. He didn't see them anymore after the cops finally got him out of his vehicle. Sorry," he added ruefully, "none of that was in the original accident report."

"It's good news though . . . I think," Mark added. Then, at the rise in Frank's eyebrows, he explained, "They wouldn't have bothered taking Henry, if he'd been dead. That's what I'll tell his daughter, at any rate." Then he looked up at Frank again, "Oh, and there's something else. A guy, a lab technician from Symnetech died a couple of months ago; his name was Hardwick, William. Don't know why. He was helping Henry."

Frank nodded and jotted a note on a pad in front of him. "I'll look into that." Then he put the pen down, sat back and fixed Mark with a steady look "_Listen_—" His tone had changed.

"I'm not really much in the mood to do that, Frank," Mark cut him off.

Frank was still studying him; his eyes were unwavering. Mark finally dropped his own gaze. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's not _your_ fault. Just tired, that's all."

Frank nodded again, then he cleared his throat. "I just thought I should warn you, this might not be a good time to cross him."

"Hah," Mark snorted out a brief, harsh laugh. "Think so?" He shook his head slowly. "Tell me, has there _ever_ been a good time to cross him? "

This got a half-smile from the older man. "Well," he said, "I've never noticed you going out of your way to avoid it before."

There was no smile from McCormick. He felt himself poised on the edge of words that couldn't be taken back. "Maybe you just haven't been paying attention, Frank. On all the important stuff, everything that mattered, _I_ changed." He shook his head wearily. "The trick was giving in before he asked."

Mark got up slowly from his seat. Frank was still sitting there, not much to be read in that impassive face. Another moment had passed before the older man finally spoke.

"Are you regretting it?"

McCormick stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and cocked his head at the lieutenant. "I hadn't; he always made it worthwhile." And it was evident, from something in the way he said it, that he wasn't talking about having a place to stay, or his tuition paid. "But," he hesitated again, then plunged ahead, "I'd like to think if he was ever wrong, I would have the sense to stand up for myself, to do what had to be done."

"Maybe he's right this time, too, Mark," Harper replied earnestly.

"Get the damn search warrant, Frank," Mark replied tersely as he turned and left, with no more farewell than there had been a greeting.

00000

He'd driven further up the PCH than he usually did to merely think about something. _Flight to avoid . . . an argument?_ He'd found himself sitting on the hood of the Coyote, staring off at the Pacific, long enough that a passing County cop car slowed, its occupant apparently giving him the once over and deciding that his vehicle qualified him a non-loiterer.

In the end, all he'd gotten was cold and more tired and, to his disgust, _hungry_.

00000

The black and white was half pulled-in to the drive. _Its _occupant was a vaguely familiar guy, young, maybe mid-twenties. McCormick couldn't remember his name but he thought he must've run into him, maybe at the station. It was obvious he was neither coming nor going.

McCormick swallowed his aggravation. _Don't shoot the messenger. _He nudged the Coyote in, driver's side to driver's side, and leaned over a little.

"You eaten?"

A quick shake of the cop's head; he was bored but trying not to look it.

"Well, I got a pizza," Mark lifted the box from the seat next to him. "Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni. Want some?" This got him a slightly more interested look. Mark passed the box over the gap between them, half opened so he could help himself. "How'd you get stuck with this?" he made a vague gesture toward the estate with his free hand.

"I lost the toss," the officer said with chagrin.

"Yeah, it happens," McCormick shrugged as he took the box back. "Better luck next time."

He eased the Coyote up the drive, parking it in full view of the main house and climbing out slowly. Rebecca Henry's car was gone. He sighed as he picked up the box and walked up to the porch.

He knocked and heard Hardcastle in the hallway almost at once. He waited until the door was opened.

"I was getting a little tired of turkey." He brushed past the judge, bearing his burden to the kitchen. "It's your favorite," he said, over his shoulder, and then frowned. "Or maybe not. Maybe you're still a cheese-and-sausage guy."

"Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni," Hardcastle said quietly.

"Well, good," McCormick said a little dryly, "some things never change." He put the box on the table and opened it. Hardcastle looked down, then cocked his eyebrow up, puzzled.

"A couple pieces for the guy out front." McCormick hooked his thumb back in that direction. "I figured he's stuck here till shift change." The he shook his head, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "You didn't _have_ to. I stayed put last night." He sat down heavily.

Hardcastle went to the cupboard and got down the plates. He'd turned back to the table before and sat down across from the other man, passing him his plate. He finally spoke.

"I told Frank 'no'. Must've been his idea."

McCormick frowned for a moment, then he said, "You _trusted_ me?"

"No," the judge said flatly. "But I figured it was your decision."

Mark opened and shut his mouth on that one. Hardcastle nudged the box toward him and he took a piece.

"Anyway," the judge went on, slowly, "I was starting to think you'd already made up your mind." He glanced up at the clock.

Mark shrugged, though there was nothing casual about it. "I had some stuff to think about." He stared down at his plate. Then he lifted his chin abruptly. "I won't just cut out. I'll let you know." His eyes turned toward the kitchen window, the falling twilight outside.

"I sorta figured that, too," Hardcastle replied.

"Well, then, good," McCormick answered; he could hear the fleeting bitterness in his own voice. "At least you've learned something about me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Sunday morning came, cool and rainy. Mark had retired to bed early. It hadn't been a deep or restful sleep, but it was sleep nonetheless. He'd thought he might feel more settled after a good night's rest—_more decisive_—but he had either been wrong, or last night hadn't qualified.

He spent a couple of minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, then got up and got dressed, slowly. A quick glance out the front door showed no signs of life from the main house, except for the light on in the den. The rain had let up.

He made coffee in his own coffeemaker, and poured two cups. Then he headed out the door and down the drive. A different black and white, a different occupant. This one he knew by name.

"Hey, Gary," the window had already been rolled down at his approach. He held out a cup. "You don't mind it black, do you?"

"Nah, black's fine," he said appreciatively.

"Anything?" Mark looked up and down the front of the estate.

"Not a damn thing. I've been here a couple hours. Nothing during the night, either, they said."

Mark nodded and took a sip of his coffee. "Probably all a false alarm. Probably don't need to have you guys hanging around out here." He smiled reassuringly.

This got a sharp laugh from the guy in the cop car. "Hah, yeah, the lieutenant pulled me over after roll, told me you might say something like that."

"Just don't want to waste the taxpayers' money, that's all." Mark drew himself up, a little self-righteously.

"'S okay," Gary smiled, handing the empty cup back. "That's what we're here for."

"Well," Mark looked over his shoulder, "don't mention it to Hardca—_castle_, if he comes out."

The officer frowned. "He was already here. Brought me a donut and a glass of milk. Said the same thing. I told him to talk to Lieutenant Harper." He shook his head wonderingly. "You guys must be pretty used to having people take shots at you."

Mark gave this a moment's thought and a brief nod. Then he turned and trudged back up to the house, cups in hand. The front door was unlocked—_Fine security we have here_, McCormick thought—and he let himself in without knocking. He heard the tail end of a telephone conversation as he headed toward the kitchen.

A moment after he got there, Hardcastle appeared, dressed, no shotgun.

"Westerfield called?" Mark asked.

"Nope, Frank." The judge looked a little peeved.

"He got a warrant yet?" said Mark, feeling pretty peeved himself.

"Nope," Hardcastle flashed him a look. "Anyway, it's Sunday."

"Well," Mark sighed, "I hope you told him I was a good boy. Spent the whole night at home, in bed." He couldn't help but bite down a little harder on the word _home_. He reached for the judge's coffeemaker and started fiddling with it. "Where'd you get the donuts?" he asked, casually.

Hardcastle frowned. "How'd you—_oh_." He frowned a little harder. "I went out this morning."

"You _drove_?"

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Why the hell not? Been almost two weeks. Besides, it's Sunday morning." He sat down at the table. "They're in the fridge if you want some."

"What kind?"

"Powdered sugar."

Mark gave him an odd look. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why that kind? You don't even like them," he prodded. "You think they're messy. You like the jelly-filled ones."

"Yeah, I got a couple of those, too." Hardcastle shrugged. "And some chocolate ones for Gary; that's what he said he wanted."

"And the powdered sugar ones, why?"

"I dunno," Hardcastle muttered, "I just got 'em."

Mark sat back in his chair. "They're my favorite."

00000

Hardcastle retired to the den again. Mark took the donuts out, got himself a plate, and ate three with an air of quiet satisfaction. It was only the phone that startled him from his reverie. Hardcastle must have picked it up before the second ring. McCormick put his dish in the sink, along with the coffee cups from this morning. He filled up two new ones from the carafe, and headed into the den.

He could tell from the judge's tone that it wasn't Westerfield this time, either. Rebecca Henry most likely, though if it was, it didn't seem like she and the judge were getting along too well.

Hardcastle looked up as Mark appeared in the doorway.

"Here," he said into the receiver, "I'll let you talk to _him_." He handed the phone over.

Mark took the receiver, and picked up the base, pulling it closer to his side of the desk, putting a little space between him and the judge.

"Mark," the voice on the other end began abruptly, "it's Rebecca. Is there _anything_?" Mark heard the same pleading tone that he had used with Westerfield the day before. "I'm sorry. I knew you'd call me if there was, but I was hoping."

"No," Mark replied quietly, "I haven't been back to Symnetech." He looked up at the judge. Then back down at the desk in front of him. "I'll let you know if I do," he added, with a certain edge to his voice. "In the meantime, Dr. Westerfield is looking at the disks, and he's got some theories about the notebooks. And Harper came up with some evidence that your father was abducted from the judge's truck that Monday night."

He heard a brief intake of breath and then a quietly denying, "Oh, _no_."

"That's really not bad news," he reassured her gently. "If they passed up on an opportunity to kill him, then they must've wanted him alive. That's good.

"Listen," he changed the subject, hoping for at least some distraction, before she turned to contemplating her father's fate over the past thirteen days, "did you know a technician named Bill Hardwick? Did your father ever mention him?"

There were a few moments of silence from Rebecca's end, and then, "Bill, yes, he was a friend of Dad's, they'd worked together for years. He had a heart attack; it was only a few months ago."

Mark could almost hear the woman's lip getting gnawed on. He phrased the next part carefully, still mindful of his misstep the day before.

"Did your dad talk about the death much? Was there anything about it that worried him?"

"Oh," Rebecca exhaled, "yes, you know how it is . . . someone your age dies, it's 'there but for the grace of God' and all. It makes you think about your own mortality."

"Nothing more than that?"

Rebecca hesitated. "Not that he told me."

"Okay," Mark hoped not too much of the doubt crept into his voice. He hated coincidence, and for him, any bad thing that had happened within a several-mile perimeter of Symnetech had become an _unconscionable_ coincidence.

They said their good-byes, and he repeated his promise to keep her informed. He tolerated Hardcastle's scowl when he answered 'yes' to several pressured requests that, of course, the judge could not make out from where he sat. They were mostly along the line of 'being careful'. None of them were 'will you please do a second-story job for me tonight?', but that was Hardcastle's obvious first assumption.

Mark hung up and eased back a little further from the desk. "She's worried," he said simply. "Can't blame her."

Hardcastle nodded his agreement.

"How did you sleep?" Mark asked. It might have sounded like casual conversation, except for the abruptness. Then he added, "Any more weird dreams?"

"Did Westerfield ask?"

"No, he's too busy trying to analyze _me_," Mark allowed himself a small smile. "That and figuring out Henry's notes." He studied the corner of the judge's desk. "The dreams?" he asked again. Some questions were easier to answer if a person wasn't being stared at.

Three powdered-sugar donuts had done a lot for his patience, but he'd begun to think he wasn't going to get any more out of the old donkey by the time Hardcastle finally responded, with an unfamiliar hesitance.

"They're . . . getting weirder."

"Weirder than a guy pulling a gun out of a book and shooting you in the chest?"

Hardcastle shrugged once. There was a long, expectant pause before Mark nodded a little more encouragement. "Yeah, well, how the hell you gonna figure 'em out if you don't ask me?"

"I already got this one figured out," the judge retorted stubbornly. "It's not real. It didn't happen."

"Okay," Mark prodded, with equal stubbornness, "So, it's not real. So tell me."

Now it was the judge who was looking off somewhere other than at Mark. He shook his head. "It's _not_ real. I don't want to talk about it."

Mark sat there for a moment, pondering. Hardcastle looked genuinely troubled, if still hopelessly stubborn. McCormick got the impression that, whatever it was, it had been a nightmare. Then suddenly, his focus got a little sharper.

"You _shot_ me," he slapped his hand to his forehead in sudden enlightenment, "_six _times." He flashed a grin that faded almost the moment it appeared. The look on Hardcastle's face most closely resembled the one Rebecca Henry had given him right after he'd asked her father's blood type.

"Ju-udge, it was a _scam_. We were trying to catch some vigilante . . . um . . ." he backpedaled furiously, thinking this might not be the time to cast aspersions on the judiciary, "ex-cops." Too late he remembered that Hardcastle could probably recall the faces of the men he'd been standing next to.

"Emmett Parnell," he said in hushed disbelief, "Frank Cardigan? No. They were good cops. They were _judges_."

"They were murderous vigilantes," Mark said, with a new harshness. "And you went after them . . ." He frowned and corrected himself. "_We_ went after them." Then he lightened his expression a little. "But Judge, your shooting me, it was a scam. Those were blanks." He touched the side of his jaw in brief recollection, "Though I gotta say, you're a hell'uva method actor. The punch was pretty real."

Hardcastle had turned inward. The next words were muttered, almost to himself. "_Felt_ real, though. Damn, I was so . . ."

_Scared_? Mark kept the thought to himself. Out loud he only said, "See, you gotta tell me what's up there. Some of it's real, and some of it's not-quite-real." He tried to coax the judge back into the conversation.

After a moment he was rewarded with a couple of blinks and a sharp look imposed on the blank expression. "A scam, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark replied, very calmly. "And that one was pretty much all yours, I should add." He smiled. "I don't usually come up with scams where a gun that's gonna be fired at me might or might not contain blanks."

This produced a frown from the judge.

"Yeah," Mark added. "I'm not surprised you were . . . worried."

"And you weren't?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

"Nah," Mark smiled again. "You're pretty good at scams." He let the smile slip a little. The next question was quietly insistent. "Did you get _any_ sleep last night?"

There was no immediate answer from the judge, which Mark logged as a probable 'no'.

"Okay, you gotta go crash for a while. You really are going to go crazy if you don't get some sleep. I'm here, one of L.A.'s finest is out front . . . and it was _all_ a scam, fake blood and everything. We had hamburgers later on that night, and we busted those guys a couple of days later. Now, go take a nap."

Hardcastle's look was still dubious but he rose slowly to his feet, as Mark made little shooing motions.

"Wake me in a couple of hours," the judge said firmly.

"Yeah, sure," Mark said blithely, and with complete insincerity. "And . . . and thanks for the donuts."

00000

At noon, the judge was still asleep, and Mark was itching to put a call through to Westerfield. He took out the leftover pizza and made up a plate for Gary. The sun had finally poked through the clouds, as if in meteorological confirmation of McCormick's own mood.

He fought off a brief urge to whistle as he strolled down the drive to where the black and white . . . wasn't.

He stared for a moment, stepping out beyond the gate and looking up and down the PCH. The car hadn't been merely moved. It was definitely gone.

He supposed there might have been an emergency; something had come up that was taxing the daytime resources of the LAPD to the limit. But somehow he doubted that that was the case on a Sunday afternoon. He stood there, contemplating Hardcastle's morning phone call with Frank.

He wandered back up to the house, thinking he might want to talk to Frank himself, but not wanting to tie up the phone, for even a few minutes, if Westerfield was about to call. He stood in fidgeting indecision for a few moments, and then finally dialed the lieutenant's number.

"Don't they ever give you a day off, Frank?" he asked, when Harper picked up on the second ring.

"Your tax dollars at work," Harper grumbled mildly, "or at least Milt's." Then there was a second's pause before Frank asked, "And what are you so cheerful about?"

"Don't worry," Mark assured him, "it's not the squad car being gone." Though he had to admit to himself that was a nice bonus.

"Then what?" Frank asked impatiently.

"I think it was the donuts," Mark said, half to himself. "Yeah, that must have been it. Frank," he turned his attention back to the conversation. "I think his memory's sneaking up on him. I think he's starting to know things he doesn't even know he knows."

"You got a little sleep last night, didn't you?" Frank asked worriedly.

"Yeah, I did. You got anything else on the case?"

"Hardwick reportedly died at home. Suspected heart attack. He did have a heart condition. No evidence of foul play, though I don't know how hard anybody looked. The M.E. passed on an autopsy. His personal doc signed off on the death certificate. The doc is on staff at two hospitals, has no disciplinary issues with the State, and no visible connections with Symnetech. How paranoid do you want me to be about this?"

"Dunno, I'll have to get back to you on that. How 'bout tracking down Henry's intern?"

"Botts? The first name is Edward. I didn't even need a subpoena, just called up the chairman of the chemistry department and asked him. No luck after that, though. His roommate says he took off right before Christmas, hitched a ride down to Baja, won't be back till next week."

"A big nothing," Mark sighed, though the overall effect was not as grim as the day before.

"Not much if you're still hoping for a search warrant," Frank said with just a hint of suspicion.

"Yeah, Frank. I'm still waiting," McCormick said, "and I think I'm being very patient. Here we've been talking for, what, five minutes, and I hadn't even brought it up."

"How come Milt made me call off the squad car?" Frank asked flatly.

"I dunno; I was going to ask you that." Mark allowed just the slightest hint of asperity to creep back in his tone. Then he eased back down. "Sorry. You've really dug up a lot for us, Frank. I appreciate it."

"But you still want some space, huh?" Harper's tone was concerned. "Just think about consequences once in a while, will ya?"

"Always, Frank. Every single time."

00000

Mark hung up, feeling slightly less cheerful, but still fairly positive. He wondered just how much emotional mileage one could get out of three powdered-sugar donuts. He wondered what Westerfield would say about that. He wondered when the hell Westerfield was going to call. He checked the water under the Christmas tree. He read the Lone Ranger Creed, all the way through, twice.

He tried, and failed, to get through another chapter of _The Law of Security Regulations._ He thought about the blood-brain barrier, and a world where you could take a pill and be able to remember every line of every John Wayne movie ever made. He shuddered.

And then the phone rang.

He lunged halfway across the desk and grabbed it before the second ring.

It was Westerfield, sounding tired, and a couple notches more worried than the day before.

"Mark, glad I caught you," he said, as if McCormick might have been anywhere but sitting by the phone, waiting for the call.

"You've got some more off the disks?" Mark cradled the phone and leaned over the edge of the desk, reaching for a pen and a pad of paper, just in case.

"How's Hardcastle?"

Mark caught the tone; this seemed like more than a routine inquiry. "Okay," he said hesitantly. "A little better, I think. He drove the car this morning."

"Well, that's okay. That's something a little different; it's called procedural memory, like playing a musical instrument. It's stored differently."

"Yeah, well, he went and came home, and he didn't crash," Mark said a little impatiently. "What do you _have_?"

"Well," Westerfield seemed to be hesitating, or maybe just choosing his words carefully. It wasn't even like the tentative discussion they'd had yesterday. "Mark, the data, I can see why Henry was worried."

"It didn't work, even with the fix-up they did?"

"Oh, it worked all right." Westerfield exhaled. "He created an inhalation form, a powder. It did a damn effective job of getting to the hippocampus, concentrated like hell in the right spots. Long half-life, too. Even permanent in high enough doses."

"So, they got it working," Mark said pointedly. "What was left to worry about?" He had his own reservations about this brave new world that Symnetech was planning, but—

"The problem was," Westerfield took a breath and gathered speed, "in even moderate concentrations it clogs up the long-term memory system. Not sure how, Henry doesn't give us any clues in the last two notebooks that I have here; we've still got some of those missing, but the data from the second trial speaks for itself. It's got a lousy therapeutic window and some intolerable side effects."

"English, Doc, speak English."

"What I'm saying is a little of this stuff makes you forget, a little more makes you forget to breathe."

Mark found himself holding his own breath, as his gaze traveled involuntarily toward the stairs. "_This_ is the stuff they used on Hardcastle?"

"I'm fairly sure of that, yes."

"Is it reversible? . . . Dammit, does it get _worse_?"

"Probably not worse," Westerfield had slowed down again, surveying uncertain ground. "It might be reversible; hard to say. Most of the rats died before any recovery could occur. There weren't any studies on humans, thank God."

"Hardwick," Mark said grimly. "He needs to be exhumed."

"I don't know if that will help. They might be able to detect the glycoprotein in the brain tissue, or maybe not, after two months." Westerfield let that stand for a moment; then he added, with quiet certainty, "It's the notebooks we need, the ones that followed Hardwick's death, the ones that accompanied the second trials. Henry would have the best idea of what was going on and why."

Mark sat for a moment, not speaking. Then he cleared his throat, quietly. "I . . . have an idea where they might be. Could take a while to get at them."

"Sooner would be better," it was Westerfield's turn to be impatient. "Long term effects, things that may impact on the half-life. That'll be in the notebooks. Henry was a pretty meticulous guy for a frigging mad scientist."

Mark swallowed once, hard. "We'll get them. I'll . . . call you back." He had a sudden and, he was sure of it, irrational need to check on the judge. "I think it's reversible," he said stubbornly, trying to recapture the optimism he'd been nursing along all morning.

"Tell that to the rats," Westerfield said grimly.

00000

He couldn't help it; as soon as he hung up the phone he took the steps, two at time and not as quietly as he ought to have. The door to the judge's room was ajar but he had to ease it open a little more.

_This is nonsense; he's fine_. He stood there for a moment, feeling utterly foolish, watching a man sleep._ It's been almost two weeks; what could happen now?_ He swallowed again. _ How long is that in rat days?_

Hardcastle must've been dozing more lightly than it appeared. Mark would've sworn he'd made no noise, but now his eyes were open. He blinked twice and looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Then he looked back at McCormick, irritated.

"You let me sleep too long. It's past four."

"You must've needed it," Mark replied quietly, not wanting to fight, not yet, not before he _had_ to.

_You told him you wouldn't leave without telling him._

_He'll call the cops._

"Did you sleep?" he could hear the tremor in his own voice.

"What the hell's the matter?" Hardcastle replied, with all his usual finesse.

"Nothing." Mark shrugged. _Lies, lies. _"Just thought you might be getting hungry; you missed lunch."

The judge was studying him through narrowed eyes as he sat up. "Westerfield called?" It was only perfunctorily a question.

McCormick nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Anything new? Anything that'll help us get a warrant?"

A shake of the head. "Not yet," Mark murmured. He had thought briefly, while Westerfield had been talking, that some of what he was saying might constitute probable cause, but he knew that was wishful thinking. He couldn't even call Frank to talk it over; a new effort to push the concept now would put the lieutenant on high alert.

"So, what did he say?" the judge sat on the edge of the bed, and clasped his hands loosely in his lap.

"The stuff," Mark began hesitantly, "the stuff Henry was researching, it had some side effects." He'd managed to get that out fairly calmly, Mark thought. "He thinks that's what happened to you." Mark paused, knowing he was not sounding very forthright. He went ahead, still cautiously. "They must've given you some. That's what caused the memory loss."

Hardcastle nodded once. Then he cocked his head, looking up at Mark. "So, does it get better?"

"Well, yeah," Mark had been waiting for that one; he was only surprised at the judge's nonchalance. "It seems to be. A little."

"He doesn't know, huh?" Hardcastle looked back down at his hands.

"He hasn't finished all the analysis," Mark said insistently. _He's still missing some notebooks, dammit._

If the judge was aware of the unspoken part of this, he showed no sign.

"I'm gonna make some burgers, that okay?" Mark turned and left without waiting for the response.

Once in the hallway, he exhaled in quiet relief over having gotten through the encounter with no more questions than had been asked. _You can't tell, him, either. None of it, not yet._

00000

Mark punctuated the end of dinner with a few weary yawns and some blinking and staring. He was surprised at how little acting it took; all the buoyancy he'd felt that morning had drained out of him.

Hardcastle gave him a few looks, then finally asked the inevitable. "You sure you slept last night?"

"Yeah," McCormick sighed. "Except I'm about a week behind, I think."

The judge frowned. "I had Frank call off the guard."

Mark feigned a little eyebrow raising's worth of surprise. "Oh?" he asked quietly. "Well, it's been over a week." He paused, as though he was making a painful admission. "Maybe I was wrong about that sedan. Maybe it _was_ just somebody looking for an address."

This got a gentle 'harrumph' from the judge. "So, you're saying we don't need to stand guard anymore?" There was a little edge of suspicious disbelief in Hardcastle's tone.

"Oh, _no_," Mark allowed himself a little stretch and a small yawn, "I wouldn't say _that_. Not for a while longer, at least." Mark left it at that, with Hardcastle surely wondering just what the point had been, and just as surely, eventually concluding that there had been no point at all . . . which was exactly the point.

Mark got up, cleared the dishes, ran the water in the sink, did all the things he'd done a thousand times before, with the same careless routine. He didn't know if the judge could tell that, yet, but he wasn't going to screw up now. And all the time he did it, he was thinking to himself, _this'll be the last time._

To bury that thought, he kept up a light patter, also routine. He wasn't getting much back from the judge, who, himself, looked oddly distracted, but it staved off any more questions he might have had about Westerfield's report.

He put the last dish away and wiped his hands. Hardcastle was still sitting there, still looking pensive.

"TV?" Mark asked. "Too early to go to bed."

"I just got _up_," Hardcastle agreed in mild disgust.

"We're both so far behind, it'd take a week to catch up." Mark didn't have to feign the weariness in his voice. "Anyway, I'll let you take first watch tonight. Okay?"

This got a nod from the older man. He thought he'd finally lulled the judge into a sense of security. And, after all, he'd left the Coyote practically on the front doorstep.

They retired to the den. Mark took a seat and picked up the remote. Of all the thousand ways in which the new judge was in variance to the old, surely giving up control of the remote was the least important, but it bothered McCormick nonetheless. He held it out tentatively to the older man, and, as usual, got a polite shake of the head.

Mark flipped through the channels, crawling up through the higher numbers to the places where old movies usually lurked. He arrived at a familiar scene, not too far into _Stagecoach_. He put the remote down on the table between their two chairs, in easy reach of the other man. Then he settled back into his seat.

They sat together in silence for a couple of minutes. Mark slowly became aware that Hardcastle was watching him, instead of the movie.

"What?" he asked, a little testily.

"Nothing," the judge replied. Then, after a brief pause, and apparently out of a period of quiet reflection, he added, "You sure do watch a lot of John Wayne movies."

Mark turned and looked at him in absolute astonishment. "You have _got_ to be kidding." It was apparent from the judge's expression that he was not. "Okay," Mark shook his head, peripherally aware that Wayne's character was about to say, 'Well, I guess you can't break out of prison and into society in the same week.' And even more peripherally aware that he had a nagging _fondness _for that line.

"_Okay,_" he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, wishing he could clear out that cobweb of thoughts, "I will admit that I am a graduate of the Hardcastle home-study course in John Waynisms. I will _admit_ that I have seen _Rio Bravo, _what?—maybe eight times. But," he looked up at the judge, "_you_ are the one who watches a lot of John Wayne movies."

Hardcastle frowned. "No I don't . . . I mean, I like 'em, but I watch lots of different movies."

Mark stared at him for a moment, then gently pushed the remote in the older man's direction. Hardcastle looked down at it and frowned.

"This one's pretty good," he muttered after a moment, not picking up the device. He turned back to the TV.

"See?" Mark said with quiet satisfaction.

They watched it through to the end, and, when it was over, Mark turned toward the clock with a pang of regret.

"I . . . ought to go lay down for a bit, so I can take over later." He'd said it, and he'd made it sound pretty reasonable, for all the unwillingness he felt. _You could do just that—go lay down; he'd probably let you sleep straight through. _The thought of doing as he'd been told was more than seductive right now. _Yeah, and in the morning you still won't be any closer to the truth. And they'll have one more day to find those notebooks and . . . do what? And you may never know if there's a way to fix the judge's memory . . . if he even wants it fixed._

"If . . ." Mark frowned. "If you could wake up tomorrow morning and all of this turned out to be some kind of weird nightmare, if you could change it all back to the way it was, I mean fifteen years ago, you would, wouldn't you?"

Hardcastle looked up at him in surprise, no immediate agreement or denial. Then the man was rubbing his forehead with his hand.

"Well, lemme ask you, if _you_ could wake up tomorrow and it had all been a nightmare, you'd never taken the Porsche, none of that, and none of what followed? Would _you_?"

Mark sat there, in silence. "I dunno," he finally answered, shaking his head. And then, "I'd better go." He stood up and looked around one more time at the room around him, and then at the man sitting in the chair. "I'll see you . . . later."

00000

He took the clothes out of the back of the closet, lifted off the dry-cleaning plastic and laid them out—all black, loose enough to move in, to climb if he had to. He took the little case out of the drawer, and the black knapsack out from under the bed. It had collected some dust. He had hoped it would collect more but, somehow, he'd never gotten rid of it. He checked the contents, satisfied himself that nothing was missing.

He dressed slowly, and before he put on the black turtleneck, he removed the medal that hung around his neck and laid it carefully on the table next to the sofa. This went under the category of unusual precautions. He'd given it some thought and figured there was a chance he'd end the night in a lock-up, where it would be taken from him anyway, with the possibility of being lost.

But he'd done this thing before and never parted with it beforehand. So, he'd decided, it was more likely the other reason. _You told him you wouldn't cut out, not without letting him know first._ So, this was by way of a sign, that he would be back, even if it was only so that Hardcastle could throw him out.

Only _this_ Hardcastle wouldn't even understand the message.

He checked the time again, and made the necessary phone call, summoning the taxi to an address a half mile down the road. Finally, he put on a tan windbreaker, to give a less _criminal_ air to his whole ensemble, and to increase his visibility for the walk down the PCH. He'd ditch it after he left the cab.

He turned off the light and went out the back door, casting one last look into the shadowy interior of the gatehouse before he shut the door.

00000

He gave the cabbie the address of a bar in Glendale, within walking distance of his ultimate destination. He couldn't honestly explain the reason for all the subterfuge. Hardcastle would figure it all out about twenty seconds after he discovered the gatehouse was empty, and, even if he didn't get caught in the process, the jig would be up as soon as he returned home with the goods.

The most important thing was to _not_ get caught before he found what he was after.

He stepped from the cab and paid the cabbie, all in the most ordinary way possible, trying to do nothing to make himself memorable. The bar was nearly empty. He sat at a table, ordered a beer and did not drink it. He wanted the compromise between a little more emptiness on the streets, and the least elapse of time possible, to reduce the risk of the judge finding him missing.

The minutes passed slowly as he felt the tension in his spine. It was too soon, but he had to get up and move, do _something_. He spotted a phone in the back, near the bathrooms, and made his way back to it. He had to get rid of his change, anyway, he figured. Couldn't carry it along in his pockets.

He dialed a number that had become familiar to him the past two days.

No answering machine, Westerfield picked up this time.

"Doc?"

"Oh, Mark. That was fast. You want to bring them over?"

"I don't have them—yet." McCormick fidgeted, flipping his remaining quarter over and over in his fingers. "Listen, there's a thing, right, with a doctor and a patient, confidentiality?"

"I thought you didn't need a psychiatrist."

"No, maybe, oh, I don't know," Mark shook his head in frustration. "I don't need a doctor; I need someone to talk to. I need someone to talk to _him_ if something should happen."

"'Happen'?" Westerfield's voice had gotten a little sharper. "You're not—"

"Suicidal? Hell, no . . . at least not in any _traditional_ definition of the word. God, no," Mark finished impatiently. "But, Doc, we've got one guy dead, one missing, and one who's been poisoned . . . and they already took one shot at me. I think I'd be crazy if I _didn't_ think they might be out to get me."

"You have a point, there," Westerfield replied dryly. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

Mark exhaled. "It's a message. Just in case. Really short. I dunno, he may not even know what the hell you're talking about." There was a pause. "Just tell him, 'I wouldn't'."

"You wouldn't what?"

"Just that. It's the answer to a question. He'll either get it, or he won't . . . and if he doesn't , then it doesn't matter, ya know? But I only want you to call him if you don't hear from me by tomorrow afternoon." Mark was resting his forehead against the edge of the phone booth, feeling like his evening in the den was already years ago. "Listen, I gotta go and . . . thanks."

He didn't wait for Westerfield's good-bye. He was feeling increasingly fatalistic and as though events were sweeping him forward. Now, or never. He left the bar.

00000

Hardcastle had sat there for a good hour after the kid had left, pondering the question he been asked, along with a multitude of other things. He'd gone to the window twice, only to see that red race car sitting out there, in plain view, a reproach of sorts for his lack of faith the evening before, when he'd told Mark flat out he didn't trust him.

_I'll let him sleep through; God knows I slept long enough today._ He had, too, not troubled, for once, by the bizarre dreams that Mark claimed were actual memories. _He knew that one today before you even told him. It did happen._

_And what kind of an ex-con likes John Wayne and powdered sugar donuts, anyway?_

He went to the window one more time. He studied the car, a sleek black outline in the darkness. Very reassuring.

He frowned. He pushed down the quivering tendril of doubt that was sprouting. He pushed it down with one finger, then stepped on it with his whole weight, only to find it pushing back, relentlessly seeking a way around his denials. He suddenly knew, in some deeply subliminal way, that McCormick was not over in the gatehouse, Coyote or no Coyote.

He didn't have time to figure out why. _Something in the way he'd said 'later'?_ He headed for the door, barreling through it and across the drive in an unstoppable forward motion. He didn't knock, and the door was unlocked. He continued on through and into the dark and quiet room.

He flicked on the light switch, in no way expecting to hear a protest at the sudden intrusion. And, to his deep and sudden sorrow, he was absolutely right.

Hardcastle stood for a moment, stock-still in the empty room. One glance upward had shown no one in the bed upstairs. Then his gaze fell toward something gleaming on the end table alongside the sofa—a medal on a chain, it had the soft luster of well-worn gold. He reached down and picked it up, studying it for a minute. It was the kid's, obviously. He'd seen him wearing it a week ago Friday, the night he had bandaged his arm in the bathroom of the main house.

He slipped it into his pocket and climbed the stairs. A pair of jeans and a shirt left draped over a chair, two empty hangers still half-swathed in dry-cleaner's plastic—not from a tux, he grimaced. A slow survey revealed nothing else incriminating.

_Of course not, he took all the incriminating stuff with him._

He moved toward the desk where the phone was and started to reach for it. It wasn't like he had to guess where the guy was going. He already had his hand on the receiver when he froze.

_If you tell Harper, then that's it. It's all over._ No doubt he could have a squad car there in much less time than it would take Hardcastle himself to get to the scene, but it would be the Glendale PD and Mark would be under arrest.

_Well,_ he thought, _it's a good thing you've already tried driving._

00000

Black bag over his shoulder, jacket ditched in a convenient dumpster a block up the alley, McCormick performed the ritual of the second-story job. _Like riding a bicycle._ Though falling off could get you five to ten.

He was in at the back of the lobby, and so far undetected, unless there was an alarm system more cleverly hidden than the one he'd evaded. It appeared the building had no live human security—surprising, but very convenient. He was beginning to have a glimmer of hope, as though it might be possible to get into the Symnetech offices, find the notebooks, and leave the premises, all swiftly and without detection.

He took the back utility stairs up to the second floor, jumped the fire door alarm, and entered.

He was starting to think, just maybe, he could make it back to the gatehouse before Hardcase found him out, and then, oh, he could take the notebooks directly to Westerfield; _he_ wouldn't ask too many questions, and might even be persuaded to forget they hadn't come directly out of the box with the others.

_It was . . . possible. _He felt a lightness, a euphoria that was entirely unsuitable to his current occupation.

He worked his way forward to the office that Rebecca Henry had indicated on his drawing. Another lock gave way. He unshipped his flashlight and flicked it on, prepared to do a quick search before he tackled the more likely location of the company safe.

And halfway through his second drawer, the lights came on in the hallway.

_And that's what you get for being an optimist. _Mark grimaced to himself, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. _And who the hell comes to the office on a Sunday night?_

There were footsteps, but no voices to accompany the lights. A single set of feet, he thought, moving purposefully down the hall in his direction. From bad to worse, the steps paused just outside the door. Mark had already turned off his flashlight, and he sat there, absolutely still, not even daring to lower himself out of sight behind the desk.

If there wasn't a gun, he supposed he might overpower one person. _Consider the consequences._ When the time came to tally up the bill, did he really want the charges to include assault? He'd never done it that way—_never_.

He loosened his grip on the flashlight as the door swung open slowly.

00000

Hardcastle had gotten over his initial queasiness driving the 'Vette that morning. It hadn't been _his_ car, and he found the idea that he still had it, fifteen years later, strangely disturbing.

_Just this, all the rest you put away, out of sight._

_Everything has a meaning._

His thoughts snapped back, unexpectedly, to the medallion he had slipped into his pocket.

_Why? _

The cold resignation that he had experienced when he entered the gatehouse had been replaced by a smoldering anger. _He's throwing it all away, and . . . for what?_

And the answer, unbidden, came in Rebecca Henry's voice—'_He was thinking of you.'_

00000

No gun. The silhouette had one hand on the knob and the other on the opposite doorframe. He would guess from the general outline, and his one previous meeting, that it was Grieves. The flick of the light-switch, a moment later, confirmed his guess. Mark tried not to blink in the sudden wash of fluorescence.

Grieves stood there, looking momentarily surprised, then stepped forward. He spared a second look to the flashlight, which he well might have mistaken for a gun on first glance.

"Mr. McCormick," he frowned. "Looking for those missing forms?"

Mark kept his smile light and non-threatening. "Thought I'd save your staff the trouble."

"Are you always this annoying?" Grieves said. There was a certain worried snap to his tone but, as consistently as the last time, and with even less justification, he made no move for the phone.

Mark felt his expression hardening. Assault no longer seemed such a regretful thing. He rose to his feet and stepped out from behind the desk. "Is it you, or Gularis running this show? Which of you poisoned Hardcastle? And where the hell is Dr. Henry?" He was way past the negotiation mode and Grieves seemed to sense it, stepping back a foot into the hallway.

McCormick closed the space between them, with every intention of pounding the crap out of a guy who was at least indirectly responsible for all the misery of the past two weeks. It was as simple as that. His focus on the big picture was shot to hell, muddied with the red haze of pure anger.

He even had one hand on the man's collar when he heard the quiet _ding_ of the elevator.

"You've interrupted another meeting, Mr. McCormick," Grieves gave him a look that was still nervous, but now more menacing.

Three more figures had appeared at the end of the hallway nearest the receptionist's desk; none of them was Gularis. All were anonymously dressed in clothing that looked vaguely paramilitary. One had slightly graying hair. He stepped forward and said, "Progress?" in a voice that implied that 'no' was not an acceptable answer.

"Yes," Grieves smiled worriedly, nerves defeating menace by a score of twenty to one. "This is Mr. McCormick, an associate of the man to whom Henry went. He, unlike the other two, does not seem to have been exposed. I think there's a good chance he has the information you need."

Grieves had, very wisely Mark thought, been edging away from him while he talked. He was now out of reach, and, to make matters even more interesting, the other three had brought guns to the meeting.

Mark sighed, his perspective suddenly altered to include all the possibilities that were worse than being arrested. "Listen, Grieves, this stuff is crap." He turned to include the rest of his audience. "It's _poison._"

"I know," Grieves answered calmly, as one of the two younger men stepped forward to McCormick with a set of handcuffs.

00000

He found the address that Frank had given them a week ago but parked a short distance up the street, pondering his next move. His thoughts were interrupted, almost immediately, when he saw a light go on in a second floor window. It was indirect, as though seen through an open door from another room. Then a second light, bright, nearer to the window, was lit.

Based on no particular certain knowledge, Hardcastle doubted that Mark was a _careless_ burglar, and a few passing minutes brought no sound of sirens and no other signs of detection. Hardcastle frowned and got out of his car, walking toward the passageway two doors south of the building and making his way back to the alley behind.

There were two vehicles about a block away. The closer was a sedan, color indeterminate in the poor light, but the judge had a strong suspicion he was looking at a gray '85 Grand Prix. Beyond that, another half-block up, right behind the Symnetech building, was the dark outline of a larger vehicle—a van or a truck.

Hardcastle stayed in the shadows for a moment, wishing he gotten his hands on a gun before he'd come, then wondering where that thought had come from. He barely had a chance to address the idea, when he saw a cluster of figures detach themselves from the darker doorway of the Symnetech building. As they spread out a little, behind the further vehicle, he could see it was four men, and one was unwilling.

He was, illogically, moving forward himself, and now one of the men had noticed his approach and was shouting to the others. Hardcastle wasn't close enough to make out the words, but the unwilling guy, now obviously Mark, was getting dramatically less willing. It didn't matter, he was already handcuffed and quickly overpowered and shoved into the back of the van, with two of the men right behind him. The third turned and raised a gun, but held his fire, seeming to realize the pursuer was still too far off to be a real threat.

Then he clambered in behind the others. The door was pulled shut and the vehicle took off, far faster than Hardcastle could close the gap between. It screeched as it took the corner and then was gone.

He stood there, panting, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, closing his eyes for a moment. Anger_—he shouldn't have been working without a back-up, _and then guilt_—you should've backed him up._

There was an image, as clear as any of those that had plagued his dreams the past week—Mark being dragged into a car by two goons, in front of the DA's office. It'd happened so fast, so unexpectedly and—the whole horrible weekend that followed, Mark in the hands of that madman, Tilton. _Anger and guilt—you never told the kid how much Tilton scared you . . . and why._

He was down on his knees in the alley, without having any idea of how he'd gotten there. And the images were spreading out from that first one, each more graphic than the last.

"God," it was hard to even take a deep breath. This wasn't anything like the dreams; this was a hundred times worse, and it was relentless. His right hand went to his chest, as if to hold his pounding heart in place. It came up against the round-edged shape in his left pocket.

_The medal. Why? _He clawed into the pocket and pulled it out, clutching it so hard that his knuckles were white. _He left it there for you to find._

_Why? Everything has a reason._

_It's something he would never leave behind. He'd meant to come back for it._

Hardcastle had sunk back sitting, still gasping for air, trying to breathe between the continued assault of images. The relentless, inevitable _truth_ of it all, for one moment, blotted out everything else around him.

Then that receded a little, leaving him shaking and dizzy, but back in the alley behind Symnetech. And all that was left of the van was a faint smell of burnt oil and exhaust.

A sound behind him anchored him again in the present. He lumbered to his feet, swaying for a moment, then turned and saw another man emerging into the alleyway from the building.

"Mr. _Grieves_," he said, with an ice-cold edge to his voice, and this time he was close enough to intercept his target.

The man jumped in startlement, then stepped back with fear in his eyes. "I'm not carrying much money," he said quickly, though that was clearly not what Hardcastle was interested in.

"Grieves," the judge had him by the collar, was forcing him up at little, onto his toes. The man _squeaked_. Hardcastle shook him just a bit to focus him. "Who the hell were your friends, and what'd they do with McCormick?"

"I . . . I don't know." He came to a full stop and then, as an afterthought, added "—anything about it."

The judge looked at him in disgust. "Wally Gularis? It was his goons?" Another little shake, Grieves' teeth rattled.

"I don't know."

Even Hardcastle recognized they had come to an impasse. Clement Grieves had reached the saturation point as far as fear was concerned. Any more added at this point would merely run down off of him like sweat. The judge eased his grip, and stepped back a bit.

"You were up there by yourself, huh?"

Grieves should have refused to speak at this point, that he didn't was itself an admission. He nodded sharply. "Yes."

"That your car?" he ducked his chin to the left at the Grand Prix.

Another nod.

"Thought so," Hardcastle said with an air of satisfied knowledge that he did not actually feel. Let this guy think the worst; let him feel the noose, though there was a good chance that no _legal_ threat could outweigh the risk of crossing Gularis.

Hardcastle turned his mind to more practical matters. "I need your phone." He pointed back toward the door.

Grieves was still apparently caught up in the shock of unvoiced accusations. He allowed Hardcastle to steer him back into the building and up the flight of stairs. Hardcastle noticed the minor alterations to the alarm systems on the way in and grimaced, but that was the least of his worries right now.

Grieves walked him through the hall and toward the lobby, pointing to a phone and then stepping back a little. He'd said nothing since they had come inside. _He's waiting for his lawyer_. But Hardcastle had a creeping feeling that if Grieves kept this up, there wouldn't be much he could be charged with. Not unless they found McCormick alive.

He suppressed a shudder and dialed Frank, rather than 911. Speed was of the essence, now, and explaining everything to a Glendale beat cop was not on his agenda.

"Frank," he cut into the middle of the man's greeting, "we got a problem. They grabbed Mark . . . no, not at the estate, over here in Glendale. The alley behind Symnetech. Three guys, probably a fourth doing the driving. A van, dark colored, Ford . . . No, I dunno what year, didn't get the plates . . . yeah I know; I'm _not_ McCormick. Yeah, it's not much to go on . . . here, yeah, twenty minutes?"

He hung up, exhaling, and looked up at Grieves, who still wasn't talking, and had merely taken on the persona of a concerned citizen.

"You understand, don't you?" Hardcastle gathered himself up, trying to stay under control. "If they kill him, I'll nail you as an accessory before the fact, maybe even conspiracy to commit murder. How many meetings have you had with Gularis? How much money do you owe him? I'm _very_ good at connecting the dots."

Grieves had regained some composure, too. More than Hardcastle would have thought him capable of. He gave the judge an arch and puzzled gaze.

"Walter Gularis is merely an interested investor. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Hardcastle had a sudden feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was missing something here, that the dots weren't going to connect, at least not the way he wanted.

"They weren't Gularis' men," Hardcastle frowned at him. "Then who the hell were you dealing with?"

Grieves twitched a little at that one, but again fell silent.

"I'll figure it out," Hardcastle assured him grimly. To himself he only hoped it wouldn't be too late.

00000

Frank pulled into the alley behind the Symnetech building five minutes ahead of schedule, not surprised to find the judge already standing there, just inside the backdoor, looking impatient.

"So, _who_ grabbed him, do we know that at least?" Frank wasted no time on any preliminaries.

"Damned if I know," Hardcastle shook his head in worried disgust. "Grieves is upstairs, and he seems awfully damned confident that we won't connect it to him."

"Even though it happened in his office?" Frank voiced his astonishment.

"Well," the judge's tone had gone a little vague, "I didn't exactly _see_ them come out of here. I couldn't _swear_ to that."

"Milt?" Frank's look of doubt narrowed down to disbelief. "Are you _covering_ for the kid?" Then disbelief made a full circle back to astonishment. "_Milt_?" He grabbed him by both shoulders. "Dammit, you're getting it back, aren't you?"

The judge's worried nod didn't leave much room for celebration, and none at all for further questioning.

"Listen, Frank, _where_ McCormick was when this happened is the least of our worries right now. Grieves will just deny it, and we don't have much else to tie him to the kidnapping. Gularis is the key; I've got to get to him. Can you try and track him down for me? He probably won't talk to me voluntarily, but if you can get him in on anything, hell, an unpaid traffic ticket—"

"Wally's not the type to leave a loose end like that."

"I know, _anything_," Hardcastle looked desperate.

"I'll try. Just finding him may be a challenge, and even if we do bring him in, he'll be lawyered-up inside of half an hour. I'll bet he keeps one on twenty-four hour a day stand-by." Frank said. Then he frowned again. "Were you here _with_ Mark?"

"No," Hardcastle replied flatly, "after."

This got a thoughtful nod from the lieutenant. "And that's when you got better?"

"More or less," Hardcastle said slowly.

"Well," Frank let out a heavy breath. "It's been kinda a rough two weeks for him."

"I remember _that_ part all right," Hardcastle muttered. "Frank, I told him if he, ah . . . _left_, he shouldn't come back."

"You weren't yourself, Milt."

"I know," the judge grimaced again. Then he added quietly, "Oh, God. What if he believed me?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

McCormick struggled to push himself into a seated position. Sprawled on the floor of a quickly moving van, hands cuffed behind him, and now distracted by the memory of seeing Hardcastle in the alley way, it wasn't an easy undertaking, but he managed. The three guys with guns weren't offering any objection, so he scooted himself back against the wall of the van.

That accomplished, he took a minute to look around. Two of the armed guys—the graying one, and a blond-haired kid—had claimed the two jump seats. The third one—dark hair, the one who had put the cuffs on him—was sitting on the floor in front of the side door. All three were staring at him with a kind of intensity that would've been unnerving, even without the guns pointed his direction. He didn't stare back.

Of course, even had there been a lot of distractions in the back of the van, it would've been hard to miss the other form, huddled in the corner across from where Mark leaned, and that's where he turned his attention.

The other man was older, tall and lean, with thin gray hair splayed out in every direction. His hands appeared to be bound behind him, too. A closer look revealed tired, drawn features, and the remnants of recent bruises. The man's eyes were open, though not particularly focused.

_He's scared,_ McCormick thought. _Probably ought to be._ He took a chance.

"Dr. Henry?" No answer. He leaned forward a little, keeping a wary eye on the guns. "Thomas Henry?"

Slowly, the older man turned his head to look his direction. "Do I know you?" he asked, in a voice stronger than McCormick would've expected.

"No. My name's Mark McCormick. I'm a friend of . . . " he hesitated. He had been going to say 'Rebecca', hoping that would maybe buy him some acceptance, but he didn't know what these guys knew. He settled for the name he knew they knew. "Milton Hardcastle," he finally finished.

Henry looked at him quizzically. "Hardcastle? Why's everyone keep asking me about him? Haven't seen him since we were in school."

McCormick leaned back against the wall. "And when was that?"

"Oh, that's been a while."

Mark sighed; he'd have to be more direct. "Dr. Henry, do you know what year this is?"

At that, Henry darted a glance back at the guys with guns. "They asked me that, too," he said in a low voice. "I think they're crazy," he added.

"Maybe," McCormick agreed wearily, "but the year?"

Henry seemed exasperated. "'66," he said, as if that should be obvious, "1966. Happy now?"

"Not particularly." He closed his eyes and thought.

After a moment, he spoke again, but he didn't open his eyes. "Dr. Henry, do you know what's going on?"

"They—they want something. But I don't know what it is."

McCormick wondered if the gun-toting guys were smart enough to recognize the truth in that answer. But then he thought about the bruises. They were healing. _They quit beating him when they figured out it wasn't doing any good._ Well, there was something to be said for that, he supposed, though it was most likely they simply had ulterior motives for keeping him in one piece, not any true compassion.

He tried not to sigh. Or scream. This was supposed to be the guy with the answers, and if he couldn't provide them, what was going to happen to Hardcastle?

Which brought him right back to the one thought he really didn't want to deal with right now. _What the hell was he doing in the alley?_ There had been a time—almost two weeks ago now . . . a lifetime, really—when seeing the judge at that moment would've given him a renewed confidence, even with three armed guys, handcuffs, and a speeding van. But now, all he could do was wonder which Hardcastle would report to the cops first: the kidnapping, or the burglary.

Behind the relative comfort of his closed eyelids, McCormick thought it would be really easy to just sit quietly and let things unravel for a while. But that would be easier if he could erase the face of Milton Hardcastle, staring back at him. Not the Hardcastle he'd come to know and . . . love. No, that Hardcastle would've been hard to leave, but he'd faced that possibility before. But the Hardcastle that stared at him now was different. Those features were cold, filled with distrust, uncertainty. The idea of leaving _that_ Hardcastle was unthinkable. He would not leave the man in that condition, without at least some answers, even if he ended up back behind bars . . . indefinitely.

With a deep breath, McCormick forced his eyes open and looked across at his captors. "So, fellas, what's up?"

The two younger men seemed surprised by the cheerfulness, but the older man smiled slightly. "You're very calm, Mr. McCormick."

From his position, McCormick approximated a shrug. "Well, this isn't exactly my first kidnapping." Though, in truth, he was a little worried about these guys. It was possible that they all simply shared an affinity for olive combat pants and black tee shirts, just as it was possible they used the same barber to get the similar crew cuts, but the overall effect bothered him just the same.

"But I still wouldn't mind knowing what you wanted," he added.

A moment passed without an answer.

"Or maybe who you are?" McCormick added.

After another moment, the other man spoke. "We are men not much different than you, Mr. McCormick, with many common interests."

McCormick doubted that, but this probably wasn't the time to argue the point. "That may be," he said agreeably, "but that's not much help in conversation. Do you have a name?"

The older man gave a single laugh. "You may call me Dane."

"Dane? That's it?"

He gestured to the others. "My men call me Commander, if you prefer."

McCormick smiled thinly. "All right, then, Dane, what is it you want with me?" He thought he could wait to find out what, exactly, the man commanded.

"Please don't be coy, McCormick," Dane told him. "Grieves believes you have the information that Dr. Henry is currently unable to provide."

"I'm not a scientist," McCormick answered, shaking his head. "I don't know anything."

Dane gave another small laugh. "I didn't expect that you'd start rattling off chemical formulas or enlightening me on the inner workings of the mind, Mr. McCormick. I do, however, think it's possible that you have that information in your possession." His features hardened. "Where are Henry's notes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," McCormick answered, though he thought it highly unlikely playing dumb would work for long.

In the space of about two seconds, Dane had risen from his seat, closed the small distance across the van, and slammed the butt of his weapon into McCormick's gut. Then he squatted down, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled his prisoner's face close to his own, jamming the barrel of the weapon forcefully into McCormick's neck.

"The _minute_ that you convince me you are useless, McCormick, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

McCormick didn't move; didn't even allow himself to swallow. "Yeah," he answered with a forced calmness, "I got it."

"Then would you like to try that question again?" Dane asked, not releasing him. "Where are Henry's notes?"

He realized then that there really wasn't a good answer to that question, so he stuck with the truth. "I'm not sure. I was hoping to find them in the Symnetech offices."

"Did you really think we wouldn't have looked there?"

"I was hoping you didn't know what you were looking for," McCormick said, still relying on the truth.

Dane drew back just a bit and examined him closely. "It's lucky for you that I don't believe you," he finally said, and released McCormick with a shove against the wall of the van.

McCormick watched as Dane crossed back to reclaim his seat, and then jerked his head once, pointing the two younger men back toward the newest prisoner. Somehow, he thought 'lucky' might not be the word he would've chosen.

00000

Half an hour later, McCormick was beginning to seriously wish he knew where the last notebooks were.

Immediately after Dane had given his guys the go-ahead, the young men had pulled on black leather gloves and moved his direction. Pulled roughly to his feet, McCormick had stood with the barrel of a small automatic rifle resting against his temple while the handcuffs binding him were released just long enough to move his hands in front of him. Then, he was shoved back toward the front wall dividing the passenger cab from the cargo area.

Seeming to understand what was coming, Henry had struggled to intervene, but Dane gave him a single whack against the head with the butt of his own weapon that kept the doctor on the floor.

McCormick was held against the wall while his hands were pulled above his head, then the chain of the handcuffs was secured to a cargo tie near the roof. Only when he was immobilized did the men lay their weapons aside. Then they had resorted to gloved fists and the occasional booted heel to do their talking.

The thing that had always amazed McCormick was the way someone could be so proficient at dispensing a beating without one single ounce of emotional investment. He had seen it time and again in prison; someone would deliver a message for someone else—beat a guy to within an inch of his life for nothing more than a carton of cigarettes or an extra couple slices of pie. Strictly business. And that's the way it was with these guys: deliberate, methodical, efficient, and dispassionate. He took a moment to wonder how it was that he had managed to avoid most of that on the inside, only to have such difficulty staying out of trouble on the outside, but then he pushed the thought aside and came back to the moment.

And in the moment, Dane was calling off his boys, at least for the time being.

"Robbins, Canton." And that was all the man had to say for the others to move immediately away from McCormick and seat themselves in the now empty jumpseats.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, McCormick was still fascinated with that level of discipline. But in another corner of his mind he had the fleeting thought that he might've liked it better had Dane not been so free with names. The idea that the man wasn't concerned about revealing their identities didn't seem to bode well for a happy ending.

Dane stood in front of him, looking him up and down, almost as if he was assessing the handiwork. McCormick forced his chin not to sag against his chest, forced his eyes to stay focused on Dane's. Or, mostly focused. One of the eyes was blurred with blood; both of them felt like they might be swollen shut before much longer.

His shoulders felt like they were straining to stay in their sockets, and he knew his wrists were probably raw, because he hadn't been able to force himself not to struggle as the blows fell upon him, even though he knew it was futile. Once, early on, he had managed to land a pretty solid kick of his own, right into the blond kid's mid-section, though he wished it had been a little lower. That was the only time the men had shown any emotion as they went about their task, and after a couple of minutes of personal retribution, McCormick had been a little bit sorry he'd done it. But not entirely.

"Something on your mind, McCormick?" Dane asked patiently.

"Nothing more than you'd expect," McCormick answered, trying to sound nonchalant, though he thought maybe the way his words slurred across lips that weren't quite in their natural place anymore might've hampered the effect.

Dane just cocked an eyebrow.

"You know," McCormick continued, "the usual. Who you really are and what the hell you want."

"You know what I want." Dane paused. "Ready to give me a different answer?"

Mark pulled a gruesome smile, and tasted the blood in his mouth. "I really hate to tell you this, Dane, but I don't have those notebooks."

"Notebooks?"

_Shit. More out of it than I thought._ "That's what you said you were looking for, right?"

"Actually," Dane replied, "I said _notes_."

"Ah. Well, you can understand I've been a little distracted."

"So what _notebooks_ were you thinking about, McCormick?"

But Mark shook his head. "I can't help you." Then he swallowed hard as he watched Dane reach into his jacket and pull out a leather sap. The man gave it a single slap against his open palm, and the dull thud was an ominous indication of what was to come.

Slowly, Dane took another step. "Somehow, Mr. McCormick, I still don't believe you."

00000

Harper paused outside his office door, trying to calculate the odds that Hardcastle had done as instructed and gone home. What he came up with was the proverbial 'slim to none', so he took a calming breath before opening the door.

"Well?" Hardcastle demanded before the lieutenant was even fully inside the office.

"What're you still doing here, Milt?" Harper asked wearily, forestalling the inevitable. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and looked across at the other man. "You should be home. What if someone tries to call?"

But Hardcastle shook his head. "No one's going to call, Frank, and you know it. There isn't going to be any kind of ransom demand; that's not the reason he was snatched. Not this time."

Harper winced a little at the bitterness of the last few words. In the past two weeks he had developed a new understanding of how all of life's events—good and bad—came together to create the person of today. But still, he couldn't help but think that there might be some good to be gained if a guy could block just a few stray memories every now and then. Not that Milton Hardcastle would be the type to willingly hide from things, but guilt had a way of hitting the man hard.

To his friend, all Harper said was, "Try to stay focused on today, Milt. Mark doesn't blame you for the last two weeks any more than he blamed you for . . . anything else."

"Oh, he's blamed me for a lot of things, Frank," Hardcastle contradicted. "The kid's only problem is that he never quite sorted out what really was my fault."

Harper quirked a tiny grin, and gave misdirection a shot. "Well, he's gonna blame us both if you wear yourself down anymore than you already are. Go home for a while and I'll call you as soon as there's any news."

Hardcastle pulled a hand across his face. "Nice try, Frank. But why don't you just tell me what's going on with Grieves?"

The grin moved quickly to a grimace. "We just cut him loose," the lieutenant admitted.

Hardcastle stared for close to a full minute, and Harper knew he was figuring the angles. What he finally said was, "You know he's involved in this, Frank."

"And you know the difference between knowing and proving. Right now, the man barely qualifies as a witness, much less a suspect. Even if you were willing to place McCormick inside that building, it is a big building. Grieves is sticking to the 'I didn't see a thing' routine pretty tightly. We'll see what we can do with him after we get Mark back. Or after we find out what Gularis has to say."

The judge looked hopeful. "What did you find?"

Harper shook his head. "Nothing. I decided not to worry about finding a way to _keep_ him, I just want to _get_ him. We can bring him in for questioning, no strings attached. It won't give us much time, but right now we need all the information we can get." Then he shrugged. "Of course, we still have to locate him. He wasn't at his address, or his most common business ventures. We're still looking."

Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. "It's after two," he muttered. "Where could he be this time of the night?"

"He doesn't exactly keep banker's hours," the detective said, even though he knew Hardcastle wasn't considering the time as much as the _length_ of time. It had been just over four hours since the kidnapping, and they both knew that was the kind of clock that could count down to disaster.

"So what did Grieves have to say about Wally?" Hardcastle asked after a moment.

Harper understood the tactic. _Stay focused on the case._ "Nothing he didn't already say to you," he replied. "Nothing more than an investor, though he did seem really keen on the idea that his investors should get a good return for their money."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle snorted. "Henry was dragging his feet, and Gularis was already leaning on Grieves." He paused. "So why doesn't Grieves just take this opportunity to get out from under? He doesn't have his chemist or his drug, but he's still got a payment to make. And Gularis doesn't really have much need for Henry; makes more sense for him to leave the guy working, get something back." He slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. "We're still missing something, Frank. Maybe Wally has a partner we don't know about?"

"Someone who decided to cut themselves a bigger piece of the pie? I don't know, Milt. That's a dangerous game with someone like Gularis."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the Rotary Club crowd that grabbed McCormick tonight; they looked like dangerous guys."

Harper leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and observed his friend. Snippy sarcasm could hide a lot, but it couldn't come close to hiding the fear gnawing at Hardcastle. He pressed his lips together to stop the instinctive 'He'll be fine' that threatened to spill out. They both knew the odds of that were pretty slim, and he wouldn't make things worse with a transparent lie. Though he could admit it was a lie he'd like to believe for himself, almost as much as for Hardcastle.

But even so, the judge had a point; they were missing something. There was another player, somewhere. _Stay focused on the case._

He sat forward abruptly. "Okay," he began, grabbing a pen and pulling a notepad toward him. "Let's go over it again, from the beginning. Why did Henry contact you?"

Without hesitation, Hardcastle pushed himself forward in his own chair and turned his attention to answering questions. For his part, Harper scribbled notes quickly, and kept them both focused on the case.

00000

McCormick awoke, not even aware that he'd been unconscious. He braced himself for another blow, then tried to force his eyes open. That took more effort than last time around, and he reflected on that for a moment before realizing that his left eye was apparently too swollen to cooperate. A thin slit seemed to be the best he was going to get on that front, and the right eye seemed to be watering in the sudden bright light.

_Light? What the hell?_

And in that instant, he realized he was no longer chained up in a van, but rather lying down in a . . . Okay, that part might take a little longer.

After swiping a hand across his face to clear his eye, he studied the ceiling for a few seconds, then pushed himself into a nearly upright position, groaning a little at the effort. Then someone was bracing him, helping him scoot back against the nearest wall for support.

"You should probably take it easy," a voice said from beside him.

He turned his head slowly. "Dr. Henry. Do you know what's going on?"

The doctor looked him up and down. "I think they didn't like your answers," he said dryly.

McCormick let a chuckle escape before realizing it even hurt to breathe, then he settled for a small grin. "Yeah, that much I think I got."

He looked around the barren room. Two doors, one with a small viewing window, the other slightly more narrow than the first; one small, rectangular table; two utilitarian looking chairs; a deeply-stained work counter, running almost the length of the far wall with a small sink at one end; wooden floors, almost black with age, no carpet; and rows of fluorescent light strips that were responsible for the offending glare. "Do you know where we are?"

"Sure," Henry said immediately, "we're at my office. Well, _this_ isn't my office," he clarified quickly, "but we're at the Institute."

Mark looked around again. "Really?" He wouldn't have expected this sort of room anywhere in Grieves' just-so world. He thought for a moment, then asked, "In Glendale?"

"Glendale?" Henry seemed surprised. "No, out in the Valley. It's the middle of nowhere; Dr. Holgremsen's family owned land out here." He looked around him at the four windowless walls. "This was one of the basement labs. I liked them; I never really needed a view."

"Ah, the basement." McCormick said with deep regret. Letting his head rest on the wall, he closed his eyes briefly again. "Nice."

"Do you know who they are?" he finally asked, not moving.

"They call themselves the People's Freedom Army," Henry said contemptuously. "That guy Dane seems to be in charge."

"People's Freedom Army?" Mark repeated, running the idea around in his head. "I've heard of quite a few wacko groups, but I don't think I'm familiar with them. What do they want?"

"I'd say they want my notebooks. Where did you put them?"

McCormick snapped his eyes open and stared at Henry.

"You do have them, don't you?" the doctor inquired calmly. "How else would you know that I keep my work in notebooks instead of, say, a legal pad, or a . . ." he trailed off for a second, then finished, "a floppy disk? Whatever that is."

And Henry's scornful confusion was so close to Hardcastle's, it was painful for a moment. And, McCormick decided almost instantly, it was certainly sincere. But even so . . .

"Have they told you why they want your work?"

Henry shook his head as he leaned back next to McCormick. "Not really. They seem to think I've found the key to memory loss, or something, and they also seem to think it would be really helpful to their cause. Whatever it is, exactly."

"They haven't said _anything_?" Somehow, McCormick thought he might feel better if there was at least a reason behind his world being ripped apart.

"Only that whoever can control the memories of the world can also control its future."

McCormick thought about that for a moment before speaking. "Look," he finally said, "whatever they think they're onto here, they're wrong. You really were working on a drug, and it really was supposed to help with memory— Alzheimer patients, things like that."

"I don't remember any of this," Henry interrupted flatly.

"That's because you were _given _the damn drug, Doc." McCormick could feel his frustration mounting again. "I know you think this is 1966, but you're missing about twenty years. Your more recent memories have been, um, erased."

"Erased?" Henry was somewhere between disbelief and fear.

"_Erased_," the younger man tried to keep his voice steady and quiet, "blocked, I don't know exactly what you'd call it; but something."

"How do you know?"

"Hardcastle is a friend of mine. You went to him for some kind of help, and it happened to him, too. And you're both lucky the stuff didn't just kill you outright."

Henry contemplated him thoughtfully. "Memory, huh? Well, I've always wondered . . . the mechanism of creating long term memories—the process varies in efficiency with a variety of factors." Henry's voice had dropped to something just above an excited mutter. "Is it possible that I was able to take that down to the molecular level?"

The gleam Mark saw in his eye was vaguely disturbing. _Mad scientist._

"Hey," he interjected harshly, "don't be getting the wrong idea. This crap is _poison_. Weren't you listening to me? You could've _died_. As it is, you've lost twenty years of your life, and Hardcastle lost fifteen, and no one seems to know if there's a way to get it back."

That seemed to bring Henry into focus. "Then what does anyone want with me and my notes?"

"Well," McCormick spoke slowly, "I think your boss wants it because he still thinks it'll make him a lot of money. The fact that death is a likely side effect probably won't even slow him down. If he can't make the money legit, it looks like he's willing to go another route. As for these P.F.A. guys, I don't know. Maybe they think they can manipulate memories once people have taken the drug, or something. But trust me, that doesn't appear to be the case.

"Of course," he went on, "once someone's been exposed, they end up in a pretty vulnerable situation; they have to rely on the people around them more than they probably ever did." McCormick felt his breath catch. "They're almost forced to believe whoever happens to be around when they wake up."

"So it would just be a matter of positioning themselves into some pivotal positions with some influential people, and then they'd be able to begin creating whatever kind of crazy world they envision?"

But McCormick wasn't listening. He was suddenly consumed with images of Hardcastle, trying so hard over these last two weeks to believe a life that he didn't want to accept. Not that the man had been particularly cooperative, and certainly not pleasant, but—in his own stubborn way—he had been trying. McCormick felt the guilt flow over him as he realized it had been a while since he'd had a conscious thought about how difficult this whole thing had been for the judge. He drew in a deep, calming breath.

_I'm coming back, Judge. And I'm still going to fix it. I promise._

He looked around at the claustrophobic little room and then at Henry with a new determination. "We need to get out of here."

But the doctor shook his head. "The door is locked."

McCormick scoffed. "We'll see."

00000

Harper looked up from his notes in surprise. "What did you say?"

Hardcastle looked across the desk. "I said, that's when Henry opened up the vial of his drug."

"He did this on _purpose_?"

"Well, he meant to take it himself; I don't think he meant for it to get to me." Hardcastle shrugged. "Someone was right on top of us, Frank, and Henry was more scared than he's probably ever been. He was determined that the stuff not fall into the wrong hands, and he was afraid he'd give them what they wanted. Now that I see what it can do, I'm not sure he did the wrong thing."

The detective shook his head. "Just seems a little drastic. Mark seems to think the stuff could be lethal."

"Henry said there'd already been one death at the lab, a technician, a guy named Hardwick," Hardcastle said grimly, "but Henry was willing to take the risk."

Harper might've argued the point, but the ringing phone interrupted the debate. "Yeah, Harper."

He listened for a moment, nodding his head, then said, "Good work; I'll be right there." He replaced the receiver, and looked back at Hardcastle.

"We got Gularis; they're getting him situated down in interrogation."

"Called his lawyer yet?"

"Yep," Harper answered, rising from his seat, "so we don't have much time. Of course, we could probably force the issue if we have to, but it could get ugly. I'll see what he has to say first." He stopped his walk to the door and turned to look behind him.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

"With you," Hardcastle replied firmly, passing the detective. "I wanna hear what he has to say, too." He paused at the now open door. "You comin'?"

When Harper didn't move, the judge reconsidered his stance. "I'll let you talk first," he promised. "But I need to be there."

The lieutenant stood for another second, then nodded. "Let's go talk to Wally."

00000

McCormick was staring forlornly at the locked door. "You know," he muttered, "a few hours ago, I had exactly the right thing for this." He thought for a second, then added, "I just hope my pack ended up in the van instead of in the building; the building could be bad."

He had already peered out the small window set in the door, and assured himself that no one was out in the hall, but now he looked again, searching for escape. He tapped on the glass, then glanced back at Henry.

"Seems pretty solid," McCormick commented.

Henry nodded. "I don't think it's quite bullet-proof, but it's made to stand up to a lot. You can't break it. And, anyway, it's a double deadbolt; breaking the glass won't help."

With a sigh, McCormick turned away from the exit and moved toward the other door. "And you say there's nothing in this closet?"

"I already checked, there's nothing to speak of," Henry agreed, following along. "Though it used to be full of stuff . . . before."

McCormick recognized the unwilling acceptance in the tone. He looked at the scientist and spoke sincerely. "We're gonna make this work, Doc; we'll have people help you recreate your work, if we have to. Trust me; it means as much to me as it does to you."

"Hardcastle is important to you?"

"More than he knows," Mark answered softly, then continued to the closet.

He stepped into the small space, but if the key to freedom was here, it wasn't readily apparently. Shelves lined each of the three walls, almost to the ceiling, but other than a few crumpled scraps of paper and one lone stapler pushed far into one corner, nothing was obvious.

McCormick ran his hands slowly across the shelves that were above his eyesight, but they were as empty as the lower ones. It was only as he was rounding one corner of the second level above his head that his fingers brushed across an irregular surface that got his attention. Desperate for anything that might help, he stepped onto a lower shelf and hoisted himself upward for a better view.

"What is it?" Henry asked, stepping into the small space.

"Dunno," Mark answered, "probably nothing. Looks like a loose panel up here in the wall."

"Oh, probably," Henry said, the disappointment evident in his tone. "This place is pretty old, you know, and one summer we started having some moisture and mold problems; the plaster was coming off in places, a real mess. It was cheaper just to panel over everything than repair it properly, so that's what we did. Bill said—"

The sudden break in the commentary, punctuated by a sharp gasp, got McCormick's attention. He looked behind him to see Henry, leaned against the doorjamb, hands clutched to his head, and an expression of terror written across his face.

"Doc?" McCormick jumped down quickly and took Henry by the shoulders. "Doctor Henry, what's wrong?"

"This was Bill Hardwick's lab. Bill, he . . . complained about the repairs," Henry finally continued in a hushed tone, staring with eyes that weren't seeing McCormick. "said there were places where the paneling didn't really have anything much to grab onto. He showed me." He drew in a shaky breath. "Lots of hiding places."

The grip grew tighter. "Doctor Henry, are you saying that you hid your stuff here somewhere?" He jerked his head quickly back to the upper shelf, then looked back at Henry. "Are your notebooks up there?"

Henry shook his head. "No, not here in the lab; up in my office." He looked above McCormick's head, fear replacing the confusion in his eyes. "This was _Bill's_ lab. He was in charge of the samples—"

"God." McCormick pulled the older man quickly out of the closet and closed the door behind them.

Henry was trembling, and McCormick led him further away from the closet, managing to get him seated in one of the chairs. "Are you okay?"

But Henry didn't answer; he just leaned forward, crossed his arms on the tabletop, then buried his forehead in his arms. When he finally spoke, the few words were muffled, but unmistakable.

"Oh, God. What have I done? Bill died. I _told _Grieves it was that damn stuff."

00000

Hardcastle was watching the interrogation through the viewing window, growing more frustrated with each passing minute. The attorney had shown up after less than an hour, but seemed to understand that cooperation should be the first approach. So Gularis was calmly still answering question after question, all the while managing not to answer any questions at all.

He looked at his watch again. It was well past noon now. They needed to get things moving. He stepped out into the hallway and gave a single perfunctory rap on the door before letting himself in. All three men in the room looked over at him sharply, but Gularis was the first to find his voice.

"Hardcase," he growled, "shoulda figured you were behind this."

"Hello, Walter," Hardcastle began with a deceptive mildness that at least Harper and Gularis must've recognized for its underlying danger. The level of tension in the small interrogation room had risen noticeably. Gularis shot a look at his attorney, and appeared on the verge of clamming up.

"Listen, Wally," the judge said quietly, pulling up a chair, "I got a little story to tell you."

00000

For a considerable time, McCormick wondered if the cure wasn't worse than the disease. After the first brief, coherent burst of fear, Henry had gone almost rigid, eyes locked tight on something other than the room around him. It looked to Mark a lot like Hardcastle's episode in the bedroom, remembering the horrors of Weed Randall's trial.

He couldn't seem to get through to the man, who was shivering and muttering. But, eventually, and it seemed more like hours than the minutes it actually was, his shaking finally subsided, replaced by gasping breaths and a look of deep fear.

"What year is it, Dr. Henry?" Mark asked quietly for perhaps the fourth time.

The older man's gaze came slowly to rest on him and he exhaled. "1986. Oh my God, is Rebecca all right?" he whispered.

Mark gave him a quick nod. "Just worried sick about you."

"I . . . I didn't know what else to do, who else to turn to."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Grieves, he said he had papers, evidence that would show _I'd_ falsified safety records for the lab, that _I'd_ killed Hardwick and then covered up my own incompetence. It was a nightmare."

"And the notebooks?"

"I split them up; I'd already given some of the trial data to my intern. I called him up and asked him to make an extra copy. I needed Milt to look at that; it was all I had to prove my innocence against whatever Grieves had put together. The most important notes I hid here. Grieves hadn't been with the Institute as long as Bill and I had; he didn't know about the walls. I left them here, even after the move. Most of the samples, too." He shuddered. "Grieves was keeping a pretty close eye on me by then. I thought it might have looked suspicious to be pulling the drywall out of the closets."

"So, everything those guys want is right here in this building?" Mark asked, still quietly, but reaching up to rub his temples, "Oh, Doc," he finally said, "you picked a very bad time to get better."

00000

"You breathe it in, like a puff of smoke, and it turns your brain into snot," Hardcastle said, with a sincerity that required no stronger language. "When it happens, it's like somebody's driven a spike into your head. I think I must've passed out. Next thing I know, I _don't_ know. Fifteen years worth, gone, like that."

Gularis frowned, still doubtful. "You look okay to me."

"Took me two weeks to get it back. Two weeks of wandering around not knowing which end was up. I was damn lucky there were people looking out for me." The judge darted a glance down at the floor for a moment. Then he was looking Gularis straight in the eye again.

"You got anybody who will look after you, Wally? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're going to be on the short list of loose ends that these guys are going to want to tidy up as soon as they've got this stuff in their hands."

The man across the table had acquired a more thoughtful look, though still deeply suspicious. "I don't know nothing about this," he said, with just a little less bluster than before. "I was lookin' to balance my portfolio. That's all."

"I'm not saying you know who these guys are, but they know you. And Grieves is dealing with them to get the money to pay back his loans from you. All I'm asking is that you lean on Grieves; get him to come up with some names and places. Dammit, Wally, I know you can _lean_."

Gularis smiled slightly at the backhanded compliment. "Yeah, well, I have my moments."

00000

Eventually Henry had curled up on the floor, falling into a fitful and exhausted doze. Mark found, despite his own exhaustion, that he couldn't rest. He'd manage to extract a little more information about the drug from him, and finally realized it was just too damn unpredictable. Hardcastle might have undergone the same gruesome recovery, or he might still be in limbo.

And the Institute—he hadn't even realized the building was still owned by Symnetech. Neither had Rebecca, apparently. How long would it be before anyone thought to search it?

He got up quietly from his spot on the floor, feeling every muscle in his body protesting hard usage. Henry mumbled something that sounded distressed, then pillowed his head on his arm again. So far their captors had left them alone. Mark wondered how long it would be before they returned, and how long after that before the changes in Henry became apparent.

He worked his way through the room methodically, carefully avoiding the closet. It went fast; very little had been left behind: a corroded Bunsen burner and a length of rotted rubber tubing, not even strong enough for a garrote; a few papers, all old and irrelevant; a telephone directory, but no phone; and an ancient dissection kit in the back of one of the drawers.

He studied the remains of the kit more closely. The blade of the scalpel had been broken off, and he supposed the tweezers would come in handy if he got a splinter. The scissors was missing. The only other thing was a metal probe, bent at one end, more than he expected it was intended to be. Someone had probably used it to pry something open.

He held it up, examining it. It was vaguely reminiscent of one of the implements that he'd left behind in his knapsack. _And don't you wish to hell you knew where that was._ He glanced over at the locked door. _Well, why not? It's something to do._

00000

In the end, it was not clear what had tipped Gularis in their favor. Harper had watched him resist the Hardcastle Effect, at first, with the full force of a man who'd never trusted a judge he couldn't buy. Then almost imperceptibly, he was actually listening. From then on it was only a matter of time. In the end, even his lawyer couldn't issue enough frantic signals to keep Gularis from coming aboard.

"Won't work here," Wally pondered, looking around the interrogation room with a jaundiced eye. He and the judge had already turned their minds to the details, co-conspirators to the core. Hardcastle grunted his agreement.

"But we gotta find him fast," the judge insisted. "We don't have much time."

"Oh, that's not gonna be a problem," Gularis smiled sharkily. "He owes me this month's payment. We was gonna get together this evening, 5:30—"

The lawyer interjected anxiously, "What my client means is—"

He was harshly shushed by both parties.

"Where?" Hardcastle went on.

"My place, up on Agua Verde," Wally said expansively. "I think maybe he was worried about me coming by his office anymore. Last time I ran into some kid. That was your bird dog, I'll bet."

"Mine . . . yeah," Hardcastle replied, quietly tense.

"Yeah, I shoulda figured." Walter nodded knowingly. "Looked like he enjoyed his work, just like you, Hardcase."

To this, Harper heard no reply.

00000

To Mark's surprise, the lock was not as formidable as it appeared, either that or he'd just ridden out his string of bad karma to the bitter end and his luck was finally turning. To his advantage, he'd found a heavy-duty paperclip on the floor under the desk. He felt the lock slowly yielding to the persuasion of the two devices. On the other hand, he realized, as he heard the snick in the lock just a moment before he would have expected it, karma is a tricky thing.

He jerked his one hand back to his side, slipping the paperclip into his pocket as the door started to swing open. The other tool was wedged firmly in place, all he could do was snap it off in the lock, a dubious act of defiance; it was hardly likely to spike their guns.

Dane was on the other side of the now open doorway, giving him a hard look, his eyes drawn almost at once to the diddled lock. He shook his head like an impatient schoolmaster.

"Being destructive, are we?"

The blond kid was standing nearby, still apparently in a vindictive mood. At a nod from his commander, he gave Mark a quick and effective backhand. McCormick staggered back, caught his already bruised ribs on the edge of the worktable, and went down gracelessly.

Henry had woken at the noise, and was reaching for him. Mark gave him one silent look, intently hoping he'd be able to maintain his earlier bemused stoicism, but he was pretty sure Dane was no fool, and it would have taken someone both blind and stupid to miss the new depths of fear in Henry's eyes.

00000

In the last of the twilight, the glittering vista spread out below them, made sharp and near at hand by the cool December air. Behind them was Gularis' home, which gave a new angle to the term 'money man'. Frank was watching Milt out of the corner of his eye; he stood hunched and quiet, tensely impatient for the appointed hour. He'd grown nearly silent since they'd left the station, merely grunting acquiescence to the plans Frank had informed him of.

There was an observation point down the road; they'd have advance warning of Grieves' approach and time to get themselves out of sight. The rest of the back-up was fairly light, and further up the road, undetectable. Frank had been reluctant to have much official presence in place to witness Gularis' 'leaning'—that would be just Milt and himself.

Gularis had already gone inside, having also dismissed his regular followers at Frank's suggestion. Wally wasn't a guy who really needed goons to produce the full effect.

There was a brief crackle from the walkie-talkie Frank was carrying. Both men's heads jerked up and Frank took the message. "It's time," he said with a thin smile; Milt nodded once. He'd already turned on his heel and was walking up toward the house.

Gularis was just inside the front door, wearing a sharp but almost conservative suit, as befit a man who wanted a good return on his investment. He showed the other two into the room off the front sitting area and then gave them a last frown of caution.

"Just make sure you stay put in here until I've got what I want from him. . .no matter what happens." He'd said this last bit with some emphasis.

Frank didn't look too pleased, but he'd seen the barest minimum of reaction flicker across Hardcastle's face and it wasn't disapproval.

Gularis looked entirely self-satisfied and leaned back a little. "Aw, come one, Lieutenant. I'm not gonna rip his head off. It's bad for business. I only do that after the third warning." Then he smiled and departed.

The doorbell followed this by only a few minutes, and Frank let out a sigh, realizing they'd cut it closer than he'd thought. A few sounds of movement, and then a greeting from Gularis, cool and subdued, barely audible. Milt had edged closer to the door. Frank put out a hand to touch his arm, but said nothing.

The voices from the other room had become more audible—Grieves' tight and a little high, Gularis' tense and low, but very smooth. It was becoming evident that Grieves did not have the money—delays, prevarication, excuses, but no cash.

The change in the mobster's tone came so swiftly it caught the observers by surprise, and clearly, even though he ought to have expected it, Grieves as well.

"You've gone behind my back. You've double-crossed me," Gularis hissed. "The last guy who did that, I hamstrung him and fed him to my dogs." There was something cold and hard in the tone that suggested it wasn't hyperbole.

Grieves sounded like a true believer; he was close to babbling now, insisting that he'd only taken on 'additional investors' to share the risk, and guarantee that Gularis would get his payments.

"You're running a damn pyramid scam, Grieves," Gularis said with disgust. "You haven't got a product. I ought to cut my losses right now."

"There _is_ a product; it's worth more than you loaned me." Grieves' voice rose up a notch as though Gularis had pulled out a gun. Frank was glad he couldn't actually testify to that. "They're offering it in cash; I swear." The sweat was almost audible.

"The whole nut?" Gularis asked in hard disbelief. Then he dropped to a hiss again, "You're a goddamn liar, Grieves."

"No . . . no, they _are_; I swear." More reassurances, panted out in gasps that suggested Gularis had taken a hands-on approach. "They're . . . a _group_, ah, the head guy's name is Dane. They've got their own syndicate of investors." Grieves seemed to be scrabbling to get this all back on a business footing.

Gularis wasn't buying, but he dropped his tone a little, in encouragement. "I'm gonna need to talk to them. We need to _coordinate_ our venture," he added smoothly. Frank could almost hear him unclenching his fists from Grieves' jacket.

If the other man spent any time at all considering the outcome of this potential synergism, it wasn't apparent. He was clearly operating on the lesser of two evils theory now.

"They're up at the old Institute building. I, ah, lent it to them."

"You got another building?" Gularis asked in some puzzlement. "How come I didn't know about it?"

"It's in the prospectus," Grieves said, still very nervous and now a little prim. Then he went on hurriedly. "It's not much of an asset. It's out in the sticks and it's falling to rack and ruin."

"These guys there now?" Gularis asked in what sounded like only mild curiosity.

"I don't know, probably but, ah, they've been pursuing their own channels of research."

This got a humph and, "Write it down for me, here." A moment of near-silent scribbling and then, louder, "Lieutenant?"

Frank managed to squeeze through the door just ahead of Hardcastle, and grabbed the piece of paper that Gularis had just taken from Grieves. He glanced down at the address and said with a grimace, "Well, at least it's not in Ventura County this time."

Grieves looked shocked, and subsided down onto the couch. Frank was momentarily grateful that he hadn't started babbling again. He thought Gularis had shown pretty good control in the face of that annoyance. Hardcastle was already halfway to the door.

"Come on, Milt. Lemme make a phone call," Frank protested, grabbing his arm to hold him back. "We gotta coordinate this a little, can't go running up there and pound on the door." He got a look in return that said '_why not?_'even asthe judge stopped in place and gave a fidgeting nod.

"Hurry the hell up, Frank. It's already been eighteen hours."

00000

Dane seemed to have taken the new circumstances in at a single sweep of the eyes. "So, the effects aren't always permanent, eh, Doc?" he said, almost chattily.

Henry had frozen where he was, wisely not attempting any denial. McCormick made a move that got him another swift, but more perfunctory kick from the blond kid. He persevered.

"Okay, Dane, I do know where some of the stuff is," Mark said quietly, preparing to dodge another kick, and very doubtful that anybody was going to believe him, but even more certain that if he let them take Henry out of here, it would be all over.

"Too late for that, Mr. McCormick." Dane didn't even spare him a sideward glance; he was totally focused on the other man. "You've only got one use to me now." He swung a gun in Mark's direction, not stepping in close enough to offer any possibility of resistance. "What's it going to be, Doc? You tell me where the notebooks are, or he dies—"

"They're going to kill me anyway," Mark muttered. Another kick.

"—and after that we'll start on you again," Dane finished smoothly. "You do remember the last time?" he asked, looking at Henry almost curiously.

The older man nodded. "I would have talked," he said this in an almost hushed voice, directed at Mark, "if I'd known anything. And I don't want another death on my conscience."

Mark looked up at Dane, at the gun, and at the blond kid with the efficient boot and the mildly vicious expression of a guy who doesn't mind following orders. He'd gotten that vaguely fatalistic feeling that comes from seeing no possible good outcome. Dane was bringing the gun to bear.

"I think it's gonna be me, or hundreds, maybe thousands," Mark said to Henry, keeping his voice very flat.

Henry shook his head, sharply. He turned his head toward Dane and said, "Take me upstairs."

Dane's smile was impatient. He tossed a pair of handcuffs to the blond kid, who exercised the caution of a trained professional as he put them on Dr. Henry. The older man offered no resistance. Dane was still pointing the gun at McCormick.

"Stay here, keep an eye on him," Dane said quietly.

The blond guy raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. Mark watched the interplay with deep interest, very aware that the man was requesting a death warrant. Dane gave a single shake of the head. It looked more like 'not yet' than a flat-out 'no'. Then he turned and escorted his prisoner from the room.

Mark edged back, trying to put a little more space between him and the kid's boot. He had his own gun out now, slipped casually from the back of his waistband. He was eyeing his prisoner with casual disdain. Mark had no doubt that Henry was cooperating. He only hoped it would be slow and spotty, maybe leaving out the part about the samples.

The minutes passed slowly. The blond guy was getting bored and trying not to show it. If Mark put his imagination to it, he could almost hear movement from the floor above—footsteps, maybe some furniture being shifted.

Definitely footsteps on the stairwell, and now in the hallway. Unfortunately, the blond kid was too well trained to turn and look. Dane was in the doorway now, holding Henry by one arm; the man was still handcuffed, and two shades paler, but not looking much more bruised.

Henry was given a firm push into the room and Dane said, glancing one more time at the lock on the door, "Cuff them both, there," he pointed to the sturdy metal leg of the workbench, which was bolted in place against the wall and floor.

The blond guy tucked his gun away, well out of reach. Dane was overseeing the whole process with his own gun. The kid had his set of cuffs out and tightened one end onto McCormick's already raw wrist until he got a grunt. The other was quickly passed around the bench support and fastened to his other wrist. Henry was just as swiftly cuffed alongside him.

Dane's man was back on his feet and stepping back. He had his gun back in his hand and was smiling. He hadn't even bothered with another kick.

"Now, there, Canton, at ease," Dane frowned sharply. "They're not worth the bullets," he said calmly. "It would be a waste of good ammunition." And without another word, he turned and left, followed a half-beat later by the blond man, looking disappointed.

Mark sat there a moment, stunned. _It's a waste of good handcuffs, too,_ he thought, but he was glad he hadn't tried to point that out to anybody. Now the sounds above them were louder—things being moved about. _Packing up?_ He turned to Henry, who looked shattered, utterly, by the realization of what he'd done.

"It's not over yet, Doc." Mark looked upward, dubiously. "I dunno, I can't believe they're just gonna—" the sounds had stopped. There were no footsteps on the stairs.

Mark began to scrabble in his pocket for the paperclip, feeling a sudden sense of urgency and only grateful that Canton hadn't bothered to cuff his hands behind his back. "Dammit," he smelled something he'd been subliminally anticipating. The contortions involved in clawing the clip out were chewing up seconds that suddenly seemed very precious.

"Smoke?" Henry had lifted his head. "Oh, my, God."

It was a pale haze now, though still oddly silent, and probably much thicker on the floor above, if it was already drifting downward.

Mark had the paper clip out, and was laboriously adjusting it to the task at hand, speaking carefully and quickly to the man next to him. "Is there anything nearby? Other buildings, a phone?" He was gesturing Henry to turn a little, to get a bit more slack, some room to work.

"Nothing much, maybe a half mile, a little more."

He hesitated a moment and the asked, "And which way is out?" _Keep the man focused, no panic._

Henry took a shallow breath and frowned. "Left and up the stairs, then left again."

"Okay, well, this place'll burn like a bonfire, all that wood. That'll attract attention quick enough."

"Not before we—"

"Gimme a sec; I'm pretty good with these." Mark worked for purchase with the fragile tool. The haze was visibly thicker for a moment before the lights flickered and went out. Henry gasped and then coughed raspily. Mark crouched lower, trying to keep his own breathing shallow.

"There, see?" There was a click, barely audible above a low hissing crackle from above. "Go," he urged the older man with a nudge. "Left, stairs, left?" He bent to work on his own cuffs. Henry moved away reluctantly. "Go, _now_," Mark urged again. "I'll be right behind you."

Henry finally moved away, slowly searching for the door in the more-than-blackness.

00000

Frank had put it together with a minimum of fuss and eyes open to most contingencies. He'd even sent a car for Rebecca, figuring they might need someone who could describe the layout to the SWAT team. Their initial approach, though, was intended to be unannounced—no stupid mistakes.

And then they heard the sirens.

Hardcastle frowned. They were still a mile off and the sound was from behind them. Frank grabbed the radio and got patched through to dispatch, but by then they could see for themselves, off through the trees, still mostly smoke, but enough flames to illuminate the aged structure.

The engine company was gaining on them fast and Frank pulled to the side to let them pass.

"People from the house down the road called it in, just a couple minutes ago," He said, putting his hand out on the judge's arm, ready to strengthen his grip if need be.

The lines were already being run out, other equipment was arriving. Hardcastle jerked away and was out of the car before Frank had even opened his own door, but then he just froze in the flickering red light, and the strobes of the emergency equipment, as if he had no idea what to do next.

They must've both spotted the staggering figure at the same time. One of the firemen had seen him as well, and was offering assistance.

"Henry?" Hardcastle closed the space between them in a few swift steps. They were all being pushed back, out of harm's way, by the firefighter.

"Milt?" The man was half crouched, tearing and coughing. "Dammit," he pulled himself free from the fireman, half turning back toward the building. "He said he'd be right behind me."

"Mark's with you?" The judge had a look of anxious hope on his face. "He's okay?" He was scanning the exit.

"Basement, this end," Henry gasped out, pointing. "Right, down the stairs, and right." He held up his still manacled left wrist. "We were cuffed to a bench."

The fireman was relaying the information to the guys on the hose. Hardcastle took two steps back toward the exit before he was intercepted by Frank and the fire captain.

"Let 'em go in," Frank said firmly. Smoke was billowing out now. They watched the rescue team go in, masks and tanks in place.

"There are specimens down there," Henry rasped. "Chemicals, bad stuff." He didn't elaborate; the fear on his face was enough for Hardcastle. "I'm sorry, Milt." Henry looked over his shoulder one more time as he was led away to the paramedics.

Hardcastle didn't acknowledge it, still staring fixedly at the entranceway. It seemed as though too many minutes had already passed, or that time had slowed to an imperceptible crawl. Even in the din around him, below it all, he could hear the sound of his own pulse, pounding too fast.

"_Got one, ground floor staircase_." The captain's radio had cracked to life, with a sibilant, hollow voice, and a moment later the first of the rescuers emerged.

He heard someone say, "Not breathing." He saw the paramedics converge on the victim. He held back, partly by the weight of Frank's grip on his arm, and partly by his own sudden reluctance. The crew was working quickly, as though there was still hope. He held onto that for a long moment, not wanting to grasp any worse reality, not even having the strength to think through all the stupid bargains he'd make with God if he would just have a chance to say, "I'm sorry."

The hose crew was pulling back. The paramedics had Mark on the stretcher.He saw the tube, and the bag, being rhythmically squeezed by one of them.

"Breathing?" Hardcastle asked as they went by, heading for the rig.

"He's got a pulse," the paramedic offered, in consolation. "We'll take care of the rest for a while." Then they were passed and he hadn't even had a chance to say anything. _He can't hear you now._ Frank was pulling him by the arm.

"Come one; we'll make better time in the marked car."

And there was Rebecca Henry, suddenly beside him, almost sobbing in her gratitude, "Thank you, oh—"

"Me?" He broke his stride and half turned to her. "I didn't do a damn thing but get in the way."

She pulled back a little, but he didn't have time to regret his harshness before she said, "I know he did it for you more than for me. I hope—"she broke off, biting her damn lip again. "I hope we'll _both_ have a chance to thank him."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Harper had snagged them a ride with an L.A. county squad car, whose driver had enjoyed almost beating the ambulance to the hospital. They went in through the lobby, Frank parking Milt at the registration desk.

"You know they've got to get him settled. They aren't gonna let you back there for a bit, so you just sit here and do the paperwork. That's all you _can_ do right now."

On one level the judge understood this; on an entirely different one, he couldn't get the staccato burst of the fire fighter's words out of his head. _He's not breathing. _It didn't matter that that problem had been temporarily corrected by the paramedics—a tube, and a bag, and a tank of oxygen—there'd still been no signs that Mark was doing anything on his own when they'd lifted the stretcher into the rig.

Hardcastle gave the answers to the registrar's questions, with his eyes still on the doorway to the treatment area. _It's bad if they come out too soon. _A quick resolution was not to be hoped for in this case. He turned back to the registration clerk; he'd missed a question.

"Occupation?" The clerk repeated patiently.

"He's a student."

_He's Tonto, dammit. _

Hardcastle shook his head. The clerk leaned back from her keyboard and waited for the page to print. She was obviously done with him.

"You can have a seat over there," she pointed to the rows of well-used vinyl-covered chairs. "Someone will be out to talk to you in a bit."

The instructions had an automated quality to them that Hardcastle recognized as being all-purpose, having nothing to do with what was going on beyond those doors. He rose slowly, and found Harper was at his side again.

"Okay, Milt?" Frank's tone was solicitous.

Hardcastle frowned, knowing what he was supposed to say in return—the formula—but not feeling much like pretending. Instead, he merely said, "Let's sit down."

They were still sitting there, twenty minutes later. No word had come from within.

"I can go and ask," Frank offered.

"Let it be; let 'em do their job," Hardcastle answered, strangely reluctant, and then, a little sharper, "What's _he_ doing here?" His frown was directed at the man who'd just entered from the street.

"I called him, right after we got here," Frank said, with no apology in his voice.

"Do I look like I want to talk to a shrink right now?" The judge lowered his voice to something approaching menace. "Do you think I'm gonna need one to get through this?"

"I thought Mark was the one who didn't trust them," Frank said flatly. "You know _he_ called Westerfield Sunday night. They talked on Sunday afternoon, too. He seems to be the guy who's the most up to speed on this whole thing, aside from Henry himself. I thought he might be some help. He told me he was trying to reach you, earlier today. Had a message for you."

"From him?"

"From Mark."

As gut punches went, it had been fairly effective. Hardcastle closed his eyes briefly, to absorb the pain, glad he was already sitting down. By the time he opened them again, Westerfield was already in front of him pulling up a chair for himself.

He didn't bother to ask if Hardcastle was okay; the answer was obviously no.

"Any word yet?" Westerfield asked quietly.

A tight shake of the head from the judge. Frank eased out of his chair and moved off a little ways.

"You talked to him Sunday?" Hardcastle asked harshly. "You _knew_ what he was going to do?"

"No, I didn't," Westerfield answered with the swift conviction of truth. "Though, honestly, there wouldn't have been much I could have done, short of calling the police." He frowned at the judge. "And you didn't do that, did you?"

Hardcastle paused on that for a moment, then shook his head again.

"He seemed a very determined young man," Westerfield said dryly. "And he also seemed to understand that his actions were not without risk."

The judge was staring down fixedly. He gave this an almost imperceptible nod.

"And yet, given what we knew, and what we _didn't _know, I would call his actions rational. At least he seemed so to me Sunday night."

"Frank said there was a message." Hardcastle let the question out with a breath.

"Yes, a little cryptic," the doctor admitted, "but, then, it was meant for you, not me. He said, 'Just tell him 'I wouldn't.''"

"I wouldn't what?" Hardcastle frowned.

Westerfield looked a little disappointed. "He said it was the answer to a question. He said you might not get it, but he seemed to think you would."

The judge's frown had deepened as he spooled back through the events of the past few days. Sunday evening seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was only with some effort that he was able to bring his mind to bear on it.

"Oh . . ." The single word was spoken softly and without further elucidation, and then he swiped his nose and muttered, "Thank you."

Westerfield looked at him, with kindly concern. "Listen, let me go find out what's happening. What I do is pretty far removed from all this," he gestured to the doorway and what lay beyond, "but I speak the lingo."

Hardcastle caught the undercurrent of professional concern. He suspected that Westerfield was already measuring out the words that would soften the blow on his return. Still, the waiting had grown nearly unbearable. He gave the man a nod of dismissal, and managed to croak out another 'Thanks.'

Westerfield walked over to the registrar, spoke briefly with her, and was passed inside. Frank had slipped back into his seat, but didn't ask again if Hardcastle was all right.

Minutes more passed before Westerfield emerged, and flashed a quick, sober, but unmistakable smile. Hardcastle was on his feet before an invitation could be extended.

"They were just about to send for you. Looks like he's starting to breathe on his own a little. Not quite up to full speed."

"Just tell me he's gonna be all right."

"He's doing better," Westerfield said judiciously. "He's still a ways from 'all right'."

"I'll settle for that, to start," Hardcastle muttered. "And I like to see for myself."

00000

He knew his first sight of the kid oughtn't have been a shock. He'd been through this before—tubes, wires, monitors—the whole god-awful nine yards. This time he let the words wash right over him as Westerfield gave him the rundown.

"The ventilator, just till he starts breathing well enough on his own again. The carbon monoxide levels they measured were enough to account for everything so far—no reason to believe he ran afoul of that damned drug." Those were Westerfield's words and the judge approved heartily of the opinion.

"And he'll wake up?"

"Probably," the psychiatrist was hedging his bet. "There's always the risk of some damage."

As much as Hardcastle hadn't wanted to hear this, he preferred it to being lied to.

"They got to him pretty quick; he'll be okay." This had been his silent mantra up till now. _And were that wishing made it so._

Westerfield pulled him back a little, out of the way, and sat him in a chair. Frank had been summoned out by a telephone call. And when the doctor asked him, "Do you want to talk about it?" Hardcastle found, to his surprise, that the answer was 'yes'.

00000

He sat silently beside the bed, not removing his gaze from the still form. He'd hated that breathing contraption they'd had the kid hooked to; somehow, machinery always made everything seem worse, as if there was nothing natural left working. Thank God that was gone; the kid was breathing on his own again. But, even with only the oxygen mask still in place, there hadn't been many other signs of improvement.

_Not too much longer,_ he thought disgustedly. They had said 'probably only a couple of hours' like it was nothing. Like it wouldn't be two of the longest hours of his lifetime. Like he wasn't going to spend each minute of those hours reliving the last two weeks, and wishing—time after countless time—that he could take it all back.

He leaned back in his chair, still watching McCormick as he lay there, unmoving. It wasn't fair that the young man was the one paying the price this time. Mark hadn't even known he'd been working with Henry. But there he lay, bearing the consequences now, on top of everything he'd put up with over the past two weeks. Hardcastle shook his head grimly. _When will you learn?_

He'd spent a lot of the last twenty-four hours thinking about Samuel Tilton and the horrific weekend Mark had spent in that madman's hands. That had happened because of his stubborn belief that he could protect McCormick by keeping him in the dark. This wasn't any different, though he really should've learned his lesson by now.

True, the reasoning had been different. He had understood Tilton's lunacy, and simply wanted to keep McCormick as far from it as possible. This time, it had mostly been a matter of logistics: the kid was in the last few weeks of a semester, and he would've dropped everything to ride shotgun if he'd known what was going on.

_And it was dangerous_, Hardcastle admitted to himself. Untested mind-altering drugs, along with threats from a devious weasel who had seemed too weak to be the real threat. Yeah, it had added up to trouble, and Hardcastle had decided to leave McCormick out of it. Maybe the reasoning hadn't been so different after all. But the end result had sure as hell been the same: McCormick had ended up in the middle of a disaster, on his own, with no idea what the hell was going on.

_You really shoulda learned._

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could block out the guilt. In many, many ways, this time had been worse. When he had been with Tilton, McCormick had indeed felt alone, believing that Hardcastle had been killed. But the kid had gone into _this_ situation believing he was alone because…_because you told him he was. _It was almost impossible to believe that Mark had even stayed, with the way he'd been treated recently; much less that he'd been willing to risk everything for the man who had shut him out of his life.

_No it's not,_ he contradicted himself. _When has he ever done anything to make you think he would leave, no matter what? When has he ever done anything except try to help?_

This waiting might've been easier if the answer hadn't been '_never'_.

00000

Hardcastle looked at his watch for what seemed the millionth time. He understood this sort of thing wasn't exact, but they'd said two hours, and he wasn't prepared for it to be longer. At this point, it had been just over half that, and he needed to move. He'd spent the last hour sitting next to McCormick, talking off and on, occasionally touching the kid's hand, just to let him know he wasn't alone.

Now he rose, stretched slowly, then moved over to the window. He looked out the window into the darkness of the night. The cloud cover blocked out most of the starlight, and the smallest sliver of a moon was peeking through. Everything had a shadowy and uncertain haze, and making all of outside the perfect mirror of his feelings.

He heaved a breath and jammed his hands down into his pockets, and his fingers brushed against cool metal. He'd been carrying the medallion around since late last night, and he had grasped it more than once since then, holding it for the briefest of seconds, and using it to focus his thoughts and steady his emotions. He fished it out of his pocket, then held it up, watching it dangle in the air. Such a simple message. _I'll be back._

Hardcastle turned decisively and crossed back to the bed.

"I'm still here, kiddo," he said, leaning closer, "you're not alone." He watched the young face closely, but there was no sign of improvement. "I found your medal," he continued, "just like you knew I would. And I got the message…eventually. Bet you weren't quite so sure about that, huh? But you did it anyway." He paused. "I guess you did a lot without being really sure, didn't ya? Yeah. Well, I'm sorry about that. And, I'm sorry you went off without your good luck charm; maybe it coulda helped." The judge didn't really believe that, but he had seen McCormick rely on the medallion for a kind of inner strength many times. He was sure at least once in the last day the kid had reached for it and wished for its reassuring presence.

He looked again at the still figure, and wished those blue eyes would open, even though he wasn't sure what he'd see when they did. But one thing he could be sure of was that not too much time would pass after he awakened before the slender fingers would reach up to his neck, looking for a simple reassurance that some things always stayed the same.

Without further thought, Hardcastle leaned down and slipped his hands behind McCormick's neck, clasping the chain together, then gently arranged the medal in place. He didn't straighten up immediately, but leaned even closer, and whispered into his friend's ear.

"I got the message, kiddo, and I'm here, waiting. Now you need to come back. You promised, and I'm here."

00000

Hardcastle had reclaimed his seat, and had spoken to McCormick in soft tones for another few minutes, and now was back to waiting quietly. He jerked his head around as the door was pushed open, allowing a slash of bright light into the dim room.

"How's he doing?" Harper asked as he entered.

The shrug said everything, but Hardcastle spoke anyway. "The same so far. Still just waiting."

Harper nodded. "And how're you?"

The judge just shook his head. "I'm fine, Frank."

"I doubt it," Harper replied, but he didn't say anything further.

When the silence had lasted several long seconds, Hardcastle looked back at the detective. "What's up?"

"Just thought I'd give you an update on the mop-up."

Hardcastle arched an eyebrow as he rose from his chair. "Okay." He jerked a thumb back toward the door, moving their conversation further from the bed, but he stopped just at the doorway, not wanting to be too far away.

"Things are coming along pretty well," Harper began before he could be asked. "A van matching your description was pulled over on 118. Got four guys, some notebooks of Henry's and enough illegal weapons to make the D.A.'s office sit up and take notice even without having to explain all the rest of this to them. Got a hazmat team out there right now, looking for samples in what's left of the building, but it's pretty much a ruin, and from what Henry said, doesn't seem much likely that any of that would have survived the blaze."

Harper leaned back against the wall, looking a little weary. "Gularis is going to get the thanks of a grateful community; there's not much we can make stick to him this time, with all the help he gave us."

This last bit of information got a shrug from Hardcastle. Then he waited, but it seemed Harper didn't have much else to say.

"What about Grieves?" he finally asked dangerously.

Harper winced just a little. "He's giving us an awful lot of information, Milt," he began slowly, "making sure we're gonna be able to secure convictions against the really crazy people. They are the ones who hurt Mark."

"Grieves is the one who turned him over to them," Hardcastle retorted angrily. "He's the one who went to them in the first place, dammit."

"Keep in mind how it was that Grieves was _able_ to turn him over," Frank reminded the judge quietly. "Finding the kid's bag of tricks in that office might be kinda hard to explain."

"So we're gonna let that scumbag _blackmail_ his way out of this?"

And Harper just stood silently, waiting for Hardcastle to finish his ranting

00000

McCormick was sleeping, but he felt wakefulness pulling at him. He struggled against it; he was so tired. And besides, what was there worth waking up to right now? He needed more strength before he could face Hardcastle and whatever he was planning. He thought a moment. No, Hardcastle wasn't the first problem. First, he had to get away from…

He drifted closer to consciousness. Dimly, he registered the idea that he was lying in a bed rather than chained to a bench in a burning building. _Okay, then, first problem solved. That only leaves Hardcastle._

As if on cue, he thought that he heard the judge's voice. He could barely make out what was being said, but he could hear enough. He felt the emptiness settle over him as he listened to the harshly whispered words.

"No, you're missing the point, Frank. When crimes are committed, there should be repercussions; a price should be paid. And I'm not just talking about some slap on the wrist, just because you or anyone else downtown thinks it's all for the greater good.

"He needs to go away, and it needs to be for a really long time. The man had other options, but he tried to take the easy way out. Things could've been a lot worse than they were, and you shouldn't be cuttin' him a break just because things are working out okay in the end. It wasn't just irresponsible, Frank. It was _criminal_."

And then, suddenly, Mark felt his emptiness filling with anger. Even after everything, all the man could see was an ex-con. The injustice of it was almost enough to break his heart, so he held on to the anger.

It was only as he pushed himself up in the bed that McCormick realized that probably hadn't been the best idea. His newly opened eyes blurred with tears, even in the dim light. The mask that he hadn't realized was on his face was almost claustrophobic; he felt its tug as he struggled to an upright position. He reached up and jerked it off, throwing is aside in disgust, as he took in a panicky deep breath. The immediate coughing attack that followed caused him to think that might not have been the best idea, either.

He fell back partway, propping himself on one elbow and leaning over the edge of the bed, coughing and gasping. He could feel his heart beating faster. The alarm going off on the monitor next to his bed might as well have been a siren. Driven by the need to get away, he tried to swing his legs out of the bed, but he was tangled in the sheets and wires, and besides, someone was holding him back, trying to push him back into bed. He struggled against them.

"Don't! Let me go!" Those were the words that screamed in his mind, and tried to claw from his throat, but what he heard was only more gasps, still punctuated by hacking coughs.

Now, someone was pounding on his back, still refusing to let him out of the bed. He tried to push them away, but they weren't budging. Finally, their words penetrated his panic.

"Lay still! Dammit, McCormick, just calm down and breathe!"

_Hardcastle_. Instinctively, he obeyed the order. He quit struggling and put all his effort into controlling his breathing. After a few seconds, the coughs subsided, though it still seemed to take a concentrated effort to draw in a normal breath.

And then there were other hands, pushing him back against his pillow. And other voices, asking questions that he couldn't begin to understand right now. And a bright light, causing his eyes to squeeze together tightly. He tried to speak.

"Har—" The sound was barely a hoarse croak, so he took a shaky breath and tried again.

"Har—"

"I'm here," a voice interrupted, and he felt the firm grip on his shoulder.

McCormick shook his head roughly. "Harper," he grated out. "Frank Harper."

Another voice spoke then. "Mark? It's Frank; I'm here. Milt's here, too."

McCormick forced his eyes open and sought the detective's face. "Make him leave, Frank, please."

"The doctor?" Harper asked, confused.

"No." He thought twice. "Yes." And then he added, "And Hardcastle."

Harper stood silently for a moment, then looked around the room. "Is he stable?"

"Yeah," the doctor glanced at the monitor, and again at the patient, now breathing quieter, "looks that way, but—"

"Then could you clear the room? We need a minute."

"Look—"

"Please," Harper interrupted, "just a few minutes."

The hospital staff looked to the doctor, who hesitated a moment, then finally nodded his confirmation. "We still need to do some more assessments," he said to Harper. "We'll be back soon."

Harper nodded, then turned back to the bed as the medical personnel filed out.

"Mark? Are you okay?"

McCormick's eyes had drifted closed, but he opened them again. "Is he gone?"

"Mark—"

"Hell, no, I'm not gone," Hardcastle interrupted, pushing his way back into McCormick's line of sight. "What the hell is wrong with you, McCormick?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" McCormick sputtered. "What the hell is wrong with _you_? The only damn thing you care about is putting me in jail!"

Hardcastle and Harper spoke in unison. "_What?_"

But McCormick just shook his head. "I'm not going to jail, Judge. Go away." And he closed his eyes, blocking out the confused faces staring back at him.

00000

"What the hell was that all about?" Hardcastle whispered harshly as he dragged Harper back closer to the door.

"I dunno," the lieutenant admitted.

"I think we need to let those doctors back in here," the judge continued worriedly, "he might've breathed in some of that crap after all."

"Maybe," Harper said slowly, then he slapped his hand against his forehead. "Milt, Mark can't be forgetting too much, or he wouldn't know _me_."

The realization sank in for Hardcastle. "Then…?"

Harper looked at his friend with compassion. "I think the problem isn't that he's forgotten, but that he remembers…too much."

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. "God, Frank, what'd I do?"

00000

McCormick didn't bother straining to hear what the others were saying. He didn't need to hear more reasons for his incarceration. God knows, Hardcastle would probably give him the lecture word for word anyway, right before he slapped the cuffs on him. He sighed, and reached up toward his neck. Only when he grasped the medallion in his hand did he remember that it shouldn't be there.

_I left this for him, so he would know…_

He opened his eyes again and wiggled himself to a nearly upright position just as Hardcastle turned to make a determined march toward the bed, and Harper hung back to watch. He felt the tiniest glimmer of hope, but he didn't release his hold on the medallion. He waited for the judge to go first.

"Listen, McCormick—"

But that was as much as he needed to hear. "Judge?" He dropped the medal and reached his hands to grasp Hardcastle's arm. "It's _you_, right? You're back?" He could feel the grin starting, but he held his breath for just a moment.

"Yeah, kid," Hardcastle said gently, placing his own hand over McCormick's, "it's me. I'm here."

And then he couldn't stop the grin, or the laughter that led to tears, but he didn't care. McCormick tightened his grip on the judge and pulled himself completely upright, leaning forward to put his arms around the broad shoulders. "Judge! Thank God! I didn't know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't. It's okay. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you."

McCormick pulled back away from Hardcastle, the grin slipping as he looked into the saddened eyes of his friend. "None of this was your fault, Judge."

"Ya think so, huh?" Hardcastle growled, hitching his hip onto the bed.

"Yeah," McCormick answered as he leaned back a little, "I do think." Then his eyes flashed. "Well, except maybe for the part about you working alone to begin with."

"Not sure you're on real solid ground there with that argument, kiddo."

McCormick chuckled, and didn't bother pointing out that Hardcastle hadn't given him a whole lot of options on that front this time around. But then he remembered the earlier conversation in the hall, and he felt the pang of returning fear.

"Judge, if, um…if everything's okay, who're you wanting to put away for a really long time instead of just a slap on the wrist?"

"What?"

"I heard you," McCormick explained slowly, "talking to Frank a couple minutes ago."

Understanding dawned in Hardcastle's eyes. "And you thought—? Is that why—? Jeez, kiddo, I wouldn't…"

"No," McCormick said flatly, "you wouldn't. But _he_ might've." He didn't put much effort into hiding the bitterness.

Hardcastle gave him a worried look, and answered in a tone that didn't quite seem to achieve the lightness he might've intended. "Oh, I don't know, McCormick, you do have a way with people."

Mark didn't allow himself to be sidetracked. "Well, then…?"

"_Grieves_, hotshot; we were talking about Grieves. Trust me, if I ever decide you've crossed too far over the line, you won't have to eavesdrop on whispered conversations. You'll hear me loud and clear."

"Yeah." McCormick breathed out a heavy breath. "I'm pretty sure I know what that sounds like."

He saw the flash of pain that crossed through the judge's eyes, and wished for a moment that he hadn't been quite so…well, _truthful_. This probably wasn't the time to try and sort out what he was feeling about the recently departed version of Milton Hardcastle.

"Sorry, Judge," he muttered, forcing a small smile. "I'm just pretty tired." He didn't have to work too hard at letting his eyes droop closed again. But he made one last, honest effort at pushing aside the nagging dullness that was inside.

"I really am glad you're back."

00000

Hardcastle was making his way through the hallways, winding his way back toward the exit, and wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do next. McCormick's relief and excitement over finding everything back to normal—or as normal as things got—had been short-lived.

Harper had tried assuring him that the kid's mood was probably a perfectly normal by-product of being held captive, beaten intently, and then left to die in a burning building. He had discreetly not mentioned that it was also probably a perfectly normal by-product of spending two weeks lambasted relentlessly by the man that was supposed to be his best friend.

It had been easy enough to let the kid have some space at first. The doctor and nurses had come back after only a few minutes, and commenced with their poking and prodding and chart noting. But after they had gone, he had seated himself in the bedside chair and tried to make conversation, only to have McCormick shut him down. Even Harper didn't have much better luck. The young man had pleaded exhaustion and the need for rest, but his body betrayed him, and Hardcastle knew the kid was too wired to sleep.

A couple of attempts at hesitant apologies had been brushed off, and McCormick had done everything short of resort to his earlier approach of simply telling him to get out. Then, when the doctor had returned the last time with the announcement that they were going to admit him for observation, McCormick had actually seemed relieved. It was then that Hardcastle knew they were really in trouble. When a stay in a hospital was preferable to a trip home, things had gotten bad.

He had managed to send Harper home while waiting for McCormick to be settled into a regular room. Yet another officer had just tracked them down, with yet another apology of 'just one more question', and when they were finished with that, Hardcastle was ready to wait alone. The detective had objected at first, arguing that they should both go, but had finally yielded to a couple of very simple points of logic: this was an excellent opportunity to hitch a ride back to his car, and Hardcastle was planning on sticking around for the duration.

And that really had been his plan. But by the fifth time the kid had said, 'You should go home, Judge', he had finally recognized the quiet desperation in the tone, and understood that this was more than McCormick's normal concern. The young man really did seem to want to be left alone, and Hardcastle had forced himself to agree.

But now, as he approached the lobby, he was still arguing with himself. He shouldn't be leaving the kid, not now, not after everything. He hesitated as he stepped up to the pay phone to call the cab, trying to believe that if he left, everything would be okay when he returned.

One hand on the phone, Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes with the other and looked around the lobby. He knew that the muted colors surrounding him were supposed to be calming, but he always thought the only thing they accomplished was 'depressing'. Everywhere in the building, you could almost hear the walls whispering their mocking words, "We did everything possible."

He shook his head, and lifted the receiver. That wasn't the outcome this time; there was still time to make this right. But he thought that would be easier if he had some idea—any idea at all—just what the hell he was supposed to do next.

00000

It had been McCormick's experience that near-death experiences could be divided into three parts. First came the oh-God-I'm-gonna-die episode, followed, hopefully, by the thank-God-I-didn't-die reaction, which might last anywhere from a few moments, to a few hours, depending on the circumstances.

But after that came the part where human nature took over. This was the bitching-and-moaning phase, usually starting about when the adrenalin wore off, and the sub-lethal consequences of almost dying made themselves apparent.

_Like now_. He'd spent Day One mostly dozing, pretty much grateful to have Hardcastle calling him by his last name again, and mostly willing to be left to catch up on his sleep. But this morning, Day Two, he felt strangely morose, more than could be explained by the rattle in his chest and the ache in his ribs every time he coughed.

_He's avoiding me. _He sat on the edge of his bed, pondering the awkwardness that had descended between the two of them only a short while after he'd woken up in the ER. _And you didn't give him much reason not to. _

He heard a tap on the door behind him, jumped slightly, startled, and then hugged his ribs against the sudden, jarring pain. He looked over his shoulder at the door, slowly opening,

"Mark?" It was Westerfield, not the judge. McCormick let his shoulders down slightly, feeling the tension that had built up, without much warning, just as suddenly easing off.

"Hi, Doc," he turned, this time a little more cautiously. "Making rounds?"

"I'm not on staff here." Westerfield smiled. "This is more in the way of a social call."

Mark allowed himself a short, painful grunt of disbelief, but tempered it with a grin. "You know, Doc, somehow I don't see you as the type who punches out."

Westerfield shrugged as he stepped into the room. "Well, that may be . . . so how are you? And you don't have to start with the psycho-social stuff if you don't want to," he added, with a wry smile.

"Better. Ribs hurt. Still coughing up black stuff; _that's_ fairly disgusting." Mark shook his head, then looked up, abruptly. "Were you here before?"

"Yes," Westerfield nodded, "early on."

"Did you talk to him?"

Another nod.

"How was he?"

This got a frown. Westerfield said nothing for a moment, pulling up a chair and settling himself before he spoke. Then he let out a slow breath. "His memory seems intact, though you might be a better judge of that."

"I know," Mark said impatiently, "but how _is_ he?"

Westerfield gaze him a considering look.

"Doc, don't go all 'patient confidentiality' on me. I've gotta go home with the guy today. I need to know where the hell I'm at here."

"Oh, it's not that," Westerfield frowned again. "He didn't impart any deep secrets to me. All I could give you would be my impression." There was a pause. "Lots of guilt, lots of anger."

"He's angry at _me_?"

"No," Westerfield looked surprised at the notion. "He's angry about what happened."

"Oh," Mark replied, looking not much relieved. "Yeah, so am I."

Westerfield tilted his head a little. "That's all, huh?"

"Yeah." Mark hunched forward a little, drawing his knees up. "At Grieves, and Gularis, and especially at those P.F.A. guys . . . and maybe a little at Henry, for being such a putz, setting him and the judge up."

"But not Hardcastle?"

"_No_."

Westerfield sat patiently. Mark glared for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

"Well . . ." the silence stretched out a moment longer. Mark looked up again and finally added, with a sigh of defeat. "Maybe, a little, at the _other_ one."

"There's two of them, now?" Westerfield chided gently.

"You know what I mean." McCormick's exasperation was patent. "The one who reamed me out for trying to take his son's place. God, I _never_ tried to do that."

"It just happened," Westerfield finished for him.

Mark twitched again, and looked at the older man with doubt and surprise.

"I was here early on, yesterday," Westerfield said gently. "That was a very worried man."

"Maybe," Mark conceded. "You said he felt _guilty_. That's all."

"Oh, yeah," Westerfield agreed, "plenty of that. But something else, too. Like a man who'd just gotten something very valuable back, and was about to have it snatched away again. He was _very_ worried."

McCormick wrapped his arms around his bent knees and let his chin drop down.

"I asked him about the memory return, what had happened," Westerfield continued on slowly. "He said it happened in the alley, behind the Symnetech building, when he saw those terrorists drag you into their van."

Mark was still looking at a spot on the bed, about halfway between him and the doctor.

"He said it brought back a sudden, very vivid memory of another time, when very nearly the same thing happened."

Mark nodded, once. "That was almost two years ago." He felt a brief chill down his spine that he hoped hadn't been translated into a visible shiver; Westerfield appeared to be watching closely.

"Well, it all fits; he said that memory brought back a whole series of events that followed—"

Mark couldn't help it; the shiver defied the tight grip he was keeping on himself.

"—and from there came a flood of other incidents." Westerfield paused, then continued, in a more speculative tone. "I would say the essential thing was emotional content. All of those things that came back, in that first rush, were tuned to the same key." He cocked his head, a thin smile emerged. "Guilt."

"Wonderful," Mark muttered wearily, "saves a lot on the alphabetization when you can put it all in one file like that." The he looked up at Westerfield, with the same weary expression. "So, that's what it is between him and me, huh? He feels like he's screwed up my life enough times that he owes me?"

Westerfield's face was neutral. "What do you think?"

"Ah-_hah_," Mark lifted his chin and fixed the doctor with a sharp gaze. "I knew you'd get all shrinky on me, sooner or later."

"No," the older man laughed lightly, "_really_, I wondered, that's all."

"I think it feels that way, sometimes," Mark said, suddenly very sober. "And if that's all the emotion I can get out of him, I settle for it."

Westerfield's eyebrow had gone up at the change of tone. "_Is_ that what you think?"

"Maybe," Mark said sullenly. "I dunno, but . . . that's not normal, is it? To . . . need someone like that. Their approval, I mean." He shook his head. "It's not; I know."

"I admit," Westerfield began again, slowly, "when I met you last week, I was puzzled." He smiled. "It was like seeing one half of the equation. Too many variables, couldn't solve for 'X'. X being why the hell you seemed pretty dedicated to someone who you must have held responsible for 'screwing up your life'."

"Please, don't ask _me_ to explain it," Mark buried his forehead against his knees.

"Don't need you to. I was here yesterday. I saw the other half of the equation."

Mark looked up again. "He doesn't _need _me . . . and he sure as hell doesn't need my approval."

"Well, maybe not your approval, at least not on any level accessible to modern psychotherapy," Westerfield admitted with a tight smile, "but your acceptance, yes . . . and your forgiveness, most definitely."

"I already told him it wasn't his fault."

"So, you told him there was nothing to forgive?" Westerfield asked.

"There isn't," Mark replied adamantly.

"Not even the 'other' Hardcastle? . . . you know, there aren't two of them."

"Oh yes there _are_," Mark continued on, just as adamant. "That guy didn't know me, and I sure as hell didn't know _him_ either."

"That was Milton Hardcastle, same as the man who was sitting down there in that emergency room, asking me to please tell him you were going to be all right."

Mark shook his head stubbornly.

Westerfield sat forward a little. "People _change_. We do it for lots of reasons, but one of the most powerful of them is because someone else needs us to. People start out being a rough fit—"

"_Very_ rough," McCormick interjected.

"And they gradually accommodate."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I did a lot of that."

"But, you see, don't you? By your own admission, he's changed too."

"Because of me?" Mark asked, his face doubtful. "Why?"

Westerfield sighed noisily and sat back. "I usually take about five or six sessions to get to this point. Are you _sure_ you don't need a psychiatrist? I have a regular three-thirty slot open on Thursdays."

Mark looked a little concerned, and hastily shook his head.

Westerfield got to his feet, smiling slightly. "Well, if you do change your mind—"

"You'll be the first to know. Seriously, Doc, you're the first one who ever talked to me for five minutes without Thorazine coming into the discussion."

This got another brief laugh from Westerfield, who turned toward the door and, briefly glancing over his shoulder, shook his head once and said, "It's been _interesting_."

And with a brief wave from the younger man, he departed.

Mark sat back, letting loose of his knees, slumping down on the pillow a ways, glancing at the clock and wondering if it wouldn't be better to be sitting in a chair when Hardcastle finally showed up, maybe even walking in the hallway. Maybe impatiently. But all these idle plans were shot down with another tap on the door. _When did he start knocking?_

"I'm here," Mark said, not wanting to say 'come in'.

Hardcastle peered around the edge, then came in, carrying a small duffle. "Clothes," he said, in explanation. "Your other stuff was wet and smelled like a weenie roast." He set the bag on a chair but didn't sit down himself.

_He's fidgeting_. Mark frowned. The awkwardness of yesterday had not been imagined.

"Give me a minute. I can be dressed. They already took out the IV."

"No rush. Frank's got his car down in the lot."

Mark flashed him a quick, inquiring glance as he got off the bed. From everything he'd gleaned yesterday, the judge was back to driving, so bringing Frank along constituted another evasive maneuver. He was only surprised that Harper had gone for it.

"He wanted to get your statement," Hardcastle added, fielding the sharp look that Mark was sure he'd shown. "You know, the holiday and all."

McCormick frowned and then said, "Oh . . . yeah, it's New Year's Eve."

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged slightly, then his eyes took on a look of hopeful inquiry. "You got a date?"

Mark snorted. "Judge, when would I have had _time_ to get a date? I've been _busy_."

"Yeah." Hardcastle nodded at this. "Okay, I'll go roust out your nurse, get your papers. You sure you're okay getting dressed?"

"Uh-huh, since I was five," Mark made shooing motions.

Hardcastle departed and McCormick felt his shoulders relax again. _Gonna be a long day._

00000

Frank watched the two of them come down the main steps, Mark a little behind the judge, no sign of conversation.

_Gonna be a long drive home._

He wasn't quite sure how he'd been hornswoggled into refereeing, and, anyway, Frank didn't think that either man had much fight left in him. Even after a day and a half in the hospital, Mark looked haggard, and Milt's expression was haunted.

Harper pulled the car up to the curb to intercept them. Mark let himself in the back, and Milt climbed in the front. Both men settled themselves without comment and it was left to Frank to toss out an 'All set?' He got a quick nod from the back seat passenger and nothing at all except a grim set of the jaw from the judge.

The eerie silence lasted all the way onto the 405, at which time Frank made some passing comments on the lightness of the traffic, attributing it to the holiday, and spinning it out into a monologue. Hardcastle finally pitched in with a few traffic-related observations. Mark said nothing. Frank could see him in the rear-view mirror, staring unseeingly out the passenger-side window, appearing to be deep in thought.

Frank made it to highway 10 with a hopefully inaudible sigh of relief, _halfway there_. It was then that Mark seemed to come back to life, paying more attention to his surroundings. Still, it was unexpected when he leaned forward and tapped Frank on the shoulder.

"Next exit, okay?"

Milt looked sharply to the side, but said nothing. Frank frowned and started to say, "Why?" when Mark cut him off with a gesture.

Frank took the route he was pointed at—Cloverfield to Olympic. He started to feel a mildly queasy panic in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hardcastle's face tensely puzzled.

The next turn indication settled it; they were on Fourteenth Street. There was only one possible destination.

"Turn in, Frank," Mark said quietly. Milt said nothing. Frank turned.

Harper doubted that Mark had anyone _he_ knew buried at Woodlawn, and he doubted that he'd ever accompanied the judge there. He didn't make the kid ask any further directions. A few more turns brought him to the spot where he'd parked only a week and a half earlier. Now that the car was stopped, Frank could take a proper look at the man in the front seat.

Hardcastle was rigid, and the only expression on his face was a total lack of expression.

"Where?" Mark asked. Hardcastle said nothing. Frank pointed.

Mark was out of the car, standing along side it, a few feet away from the front door on Milt's side. He was clearly waiting, and just as clearly not going to ask. Frank heard Milt let out a sigh, seemingly the first breath he'd taken in a few moments. Then the judge opened his door and got out, standing slowly, looking every one of his sixty-some years.

Mark stood there for a moment, not offering him a hand, then turned and walked toward the graves, seeming to assume that Hardcastle would follow.

00000

Mark walked slowly, trying to keep his breathing slow and calm—this would not be a good moment for another coughing jag. On the grass he couldn't hear whether or not there were footsteps behind him; he just had to assume the judge was backing him up. This wasn't something he'd ever had to give much thought to.

He steered toward the plot Frank had pointed out, the granite stone, and the smaller one next to it, which was only visible from a distance by the small flag that had been planted by it. His eyes were drawn to the double marker, Nancy's name inscribed on the one side, the other blank. He blinked once. This was not why he'd come.

He took another step toward the smaller stone. Now he could hear Hardcastle, his breathing almost as labored as his own.

"Why are you doing this?" The older man's voice was strained, very tired, but not angry,_ not yet_.

Mark gave it a moment's thought.

"Because it's important. Because it's about time." He looked at the name—Thomas C. Hardcastle—glanced briefly at the dates, the emblem. _All of a person's life, eighteen years, come down to this._ But that wasn't why he'd come, either.

"All right," the judge said, very calm, the worry well-embedded in his tone, "can we go now?"

"No," Mark said, quietly insistent. _So, why did you come?_ "We've got some unfinished business."

He turned his head slightly, so he could see Hardcastle out of the corner of his eye. The man's face was as unreadable as the blank half of the granite marker. Mark began to wonder about the impulse that had brought him here. But then the judge shook his head once. And spoke—

"Okay," he said in quiet concession, "I think I get it."

"Good," Mark exhaled, "then you can explain it to me."

This finally evoked an expression—the judge's eyebrows went up in surprise, and then, almost as quickly, down into a frown.

"Well," he said, "I was a horse's ass last Saturday. I'm sorry."

"Last Saturday doesn't count. You . . . weren't yourself." Mark lifted his head. "I thought I was angry about that—that's what I told Westerfield, but that was just an easy out." He had fixed the judge with a steady gaze. "You've been a horse's ass about this for three and a half years, hell, maybe for _fifteen_ years. I dunno."

Hardcastle didn't flinch, but he didn't make eye contact, either. The silence was getting a little heavy.

"Listen," Mark sighed, and finally went on, "to pretend someone never existed, just so you won't have to remember that they died, that's an awfully heavy price to pay."

"It's not like that," Hardcastle replied sullenly.

"Hah, it isn't? Well, when we get home why don't you dig up an old photo, put it on the mantle next to Nancy's, okay?" Mark heard the sharpness in his own words and cringed inwardly, wondering where it had all come from and suddenly recognizing it for what it was—anger, pure and simple. He'd gotten no denial. He started up again, slower. "Okay, you can't. I understand." This got a quick flash from the judge. "Oh, yes I _do_," Mark snapped back at the unspoken retort. "Moms aren't supposed to die, either." He took a few slow, deep breaths. He was suddenly tired; he wanted to go home.

"I . . ." he paused, trying to get the discussion back on track. _Discussion? He's said a dozen words._ "I just want you to know. This thing, between you and Tom, I know it's none of my business, but you ought to _settle_ it." Still no words from the judge. "And, I also want you to know it is not my fault."

"I never said _that_," Hardcastle's indignation was quick.

"No, but _he_ did, and Westerfield says he is you, so maybe you still think that, somewhere up there." Mark pointed vaguely toward the judge's head. "I know who _I_ am, and I know I'm not _him_." He was running out of breath, and steam, and the will to drive this thing forward at any cost. And he was all too aware that he was going to wind up sitting on Nancy's tombstone, if not on the ground, in another minute, if he kept at it.

A couple more breaths, he leaned his hand on the larger stone for support. "_And_," he added emphatically, "it's not a matter of choosing. You can be happy, and still miss someone. You can go on living, and not forget the people who've died—"

"And I can have two sons," Hardcastle replied very quietly. "Even if one of them is dead."

Mark blinked a couple times, vaguely aware that he was leaning even harder on the stone.

And, having said everything he'd wanted to say, and heard more than he'd hoped, he was glad enough when the judge asked, still quietly, "Can we go home now?'

00000

Frank leaned against the front bumper of his car, arms crossed, watching from afar. Maybe he'd underestimated; they both seemed willing to come up to scratch when the bell rang. Not that he was expecting any actual blows. So far it was Mark doing all the talking, and Harper was too far away to hear what he was saying. Milt was taking it on the chin.

_Good, maybe this'll clear the air._

Then, suddenly, it was over. Mark sagged against the granite like a guy on the ropes. It was entirely possible, Frank thought, that the kid had also underestimated the older man. Or that Hardcastle hadn't realized how fragile Mark was right now. But then he saw Milt reaching out. _Of course—he's not cruel, at least not intentionally so._

At least Mark was willing to accept the assistance. A minute more, with the kid leaning forward, obviously trying to catch his breath, and they were both up, heading slowly back, Milt still giving the younger man a supporting arm.

They arrived at the car, Milt opening the back door and McCormick climbing in, strangely subdued, but without the outward signs of tension that had been there when he'd come out of the hospital.

Milt climbed into the front seat. Frank scrambled around to his side and was in a moment later. Still silent. Neither of the other two seemed to have anything left to say. _And you're sure-as-hell not jumping into this._

But, somehow, there was a calmer air about the situation. And as to whether it was the calm of resignation . . . _well, I hope not._

00000

McCormick thought he might have dozed off for a few minutes; either that or he'd been so deeply in his own mind that he hadn't noticed the familiar approach to Gull's Way. At any rate, Frank was announcing their arrival before Mark had even become aware that they were in the drive.

The sun was slanting low enough to qualify as late afternoon. Mark climbed out of the car, waving off an offer of assistance and trying to look not in need of it. This meant taking the porch steps in short order, but brought him to a full stop in front of the locked front door, suddenly very aware of that his keys were back on the desk in the gatehouse, jettisoned on Sunday night.

He smiled a little grimly, and stood a little awkwardly, as the judge stepped by him and unlocked the door without a comment. Frank had only just gotten out of the car. He didn't move toward the house. Now he was waving a quick good-bye and getting back in.

"Happy New Year," he said, looking like a man who was glad to be out of the line of fire. Apparently all thought of taking a statement had fled.

"You too, Frank." Mark managed another smile before he turned and followed the judge into the house.

He headed almost immediately for the kitchen, but was only there a few minutes before Hardcastle joined him.

"Whaddaya think you're doing? The doctor said you're supposed to take it easy."

Mark looked up from the fridge, where he'd been leaning in, studying the contents with a jaundiced eye. "Cooking and eating _is_ taking it easy," he argued reasonably. "This ham is shot. You should have dumped it. And the turkey's getting a little fuzzy, too." He shook his head as he carried the pan over to the garbage. "I get kidnapped and _nobody_ does the grocery shopping."

"Well," Hardcastle grumbled, "I was prioritizing."

Mark stood there for a moment, watching the remains of Christmas dinner slide into the waste can. "I know," he quirked a smile. "So, you've got two choices—bacon and eggs, or macaroni and cheese."

Hardcastle frowned. "Which is easier?"

This got him a laugh from the younger man. "_See_? The fact that you even have to _ask _how easy mac and cheese is, is a testament to how sheltered your life has been. Okay," he considered for a moment, "I suppose I get a couple extra points for boiling the water for the macaroni. But I gotta wash two pans for the bacon and eggs."

"Let's call out for pizza." Hardcastle said, as though the specter of two unwashed pans had decided it. "Let 'em deliver it."

"Onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and pepperoni," Mark recited solemnly, and then, "New Year's Eve," he pointed out. "It'll take a while."

00000

The pizza finally came, though he had to roust the kid out from a nap on the sofa to eat it, after which it was well and truly New Year's Eve. They'd adjourned to the den, though nobody reached for the remote control right away.

McCormick wandered over to the couch and picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor next to it. He only came back to his chair after the judge was sitting down. Hardcastle finally picked up the device, looking at it with some chagrin.

McCormick was frowning, too. "No little areas of left-over empty space, I hope?" he asked cautiously.

"Hell, no," Hardcastle replied. "It's all back, even the stuff I would've rather parted with." He looked down at the device and shook his head. "You have no idea how baffling one of these things is, if you've never used it before." He pointed it at the TV and clicked.

McCormick settled back into his seat, and watched the screen flicker as they crawled up the channels into the John Wayne Zone. "Yeah, well," he said philosophically, "it was nice while it lasted. Can we at least watch the ball drop in Times Square?" He looked at the clock. "_Fort Apache_ should be over by then."

"Think you'll hang in there all the way to nine o'clock? The way you're going, I'm thinking you're not gonna make it to Newfoundland."

"Speak for yourself; you gave up sleeping two weeks ago." It had come out a little sharp, and Hardcastle turned to look at the man who had uttered it.

McCormick was hunched down in the chair, looking abashed. "Sorry," he muttered.

"'S okay. I think you're still a couple up on me in the apologizing department," the judge replied quietly.

This was met with a moment of silence. John Wayne was riding off to invite Cochise to a parley. McCormick finally raised his eyes, looking deadly serious.

"Look, Judge, Westerfield said . . ." More silence.

Hardcastle finally cleared his throat. "He said what?"

"Ah," Mark twitched and looked away, back down at the carpet. "He said you felt guilty . . . again."

"_Again_?"

"That was my part, the 'again'."

"I thought you didn't like shrinks?" Hardcastle said. "How much did you talk to this guy?"

"Probably not as much as you did." Mark slumped down in the chair a little more. "Besides, he made a lot of sense." He frowned at this concession, then added, "For a shrink."

This got a grunt from Hardcastle.

"So, is _that_ what it is?"

"What '_what'_ is?"

"That you think you screwed my life up and . . ." Mark waved his hand vaguely, as if the rest of the statement ought to be apparent.

Another grunt, this one a lot more emphatic. "Hah, in the first place, I didn't screw up your life. Though I'm willing to admit it might have been a group effort, but _I_ wasn't even on the committee. But, anyway, you always had the deciding vote."

"Yeah," McCormick smiled wryly, "I figured that out."

"Well, I'm glad you finally have," the judge nodded once, approvingly. Then he fixed the younger man with a very determined gaze. "And, _secondly_, I never gave you anything you didn't earn."

Mark swallowed once, as if that part had come as a surprise, but he didn't look away again.

"And, what would you say if I didn't go back to law school?"

This had come from so far out in left field that the judge merely blinked once, wondering if he'd heard right. The look on the kid's face, still deadly serious, convinced him he had. It was his turn to swallow hard.

"I'd say I already paid the tuition." His smile was a little strained.

"You can get a refund, up to the first day of class, minus the matriculation fee. I checked last week."

"But . . . I thought you _wanted_ to do it. I thought you _liked_ it . . . the law, I mean."

"I do." The strain on McCormick's face was becoming increasingly apparent. "I think . . . damn, I'm not even sure what I think anymore."

Hardcastle jumped in hastily. "This is probably not a good time to de—"

"—All I know is, I'm not _him_," the way Mark had said it, the pronoun spoke for itself, "and I'm sure as hell not _you_."

"You're you," Hardcastle said flatly. "That's all I ever expected. That's good enough. And I think you'd make a very good lawyer." Then he felt his eyes narrow a little. "This isn't about not being around to be Tonto, is it?"

Mark hesitated.

"No." The answer had come too slow to be the absolute, unvarnished truth. "At least that's not all of it."

"Listen, kiddo," the judge had lowered his voice a notch or two, "in case you haven't noticed, I've got thirty-some years on you. I'm gonna have to hang up my spurs sooner or later."

"Later," Mark replied, "probably."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, I promise . . . I _really_ promise; I'll let you know if there's any bad guys that need going after."

"Really?" The disbelief in the younger man's voice was palpable.

"_Really_."

"Okay," McCormick replied slowly, slouching down a little more. "One more chance."

"And another semester?"

"Yeah." Mark had let his head fall back onto the chair, his eyes were closed again. "I do kinda like it," he muttered.

"I figured you would." The judge smiled. There was a pause, filled only by one gentle snore from the guy in the other chair. "Happy New Year," Hardcastle announced quietly, looking down at his watch. "In Greenland."


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

He awoke in bed, for a change, and had the usual brief moment of disorientation. _Guest room. _It hadn't been an argument, more of a discussion, the night before, about how the doctor hadn't meant spending the night dozing in a chair in front of a TV as 'taking it easy'. This had been countered by enough drowsy protests that he'd wound up sent to the nearest available bed, rather than the gatehouse. And that had been, Mark squinted at his watch, _fourteen hours ago._

_Happy New Year._

He crawled out of bed, sat on the edge, and tried to cough up that last pesky lung. He heard Hardcase at the foot of the stairs shouting, "You okay?"

_Shoulda gone in the bathroom and shut the door._

He managed an impatient "Yeah," between hacks.

"Sure you are." The judge's voice sounded a half a flight of stairs closer. "And breakfast is almost ready." He stuck his head in the doorway.

McCormick waved him away. "Down in a sec. I'm _fine_." And, as if to prove it, he started pulling on clothes from the tangled heap on the floor.

Hardcastle frowned and departed.

He followed him down a few minutes later, the smell of bacon and eggs drawing him into the kitchen. The toast was already on the plates, already buttered, and in the middle of the table was a plate of donuts, powdered sugar.

"Where'd you get those on New Year's morning?"

"Didn't," the judge said, as he fetched the eggs from the stove and put them next to the plate of bacon. "Got 'em yesterday morning. Day old. Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," Mark smiled. "They keep." He sat down.

"What you mean is, you like 'em even when they're stale."

McCormick had already picked one up and taken a bite. Around sugar and crumbs he said, "But they're not." He chewed and swallowed, a bit thoughtfully, then picked up a piece of toast. "Hey, how did you know when I was gonna wake up?" He frowned at the toast, holding it balanced casually out on his fingertips.

"I didn't; I was about to go up there and pound on your door," the judge explained; he was frowning, too, now. "I figured fourteen hours was enough for _anybody_. Hey, be careful, you're gonna drop that on the floor."

"Yeah, I know," Mark replied calmly, eyeing the toast. "See, I figure if I drop it, oh, maybe five times, and it lands butter-side-up all five, then I'll know this is all a dream and I'm really still back at the Institute."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you ever read _Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge_?"

"See," the judge said practically, "that's what comes from too much English lit. Makes you paranoid."

"It's American lit, and I was already that way."

"So what does it mean if it lands butter-side-down all five times?" Hardcastle asked. "Does that mean it's a nightmare?"

"No," Mark smiled, "that would mean it's my normal life . . . and I'd have to wipe up the floor."

"Then I wouldn't drop it, if I were you."

The smile became a grin, and Mark took a bite out of the toast.

"And if you hustle," Hardcastle advised him, "we can still catch the end of the Rose Bowl Parade."

00000

They ate. The judge cleared the plates and Mark scraped the pans but did not wash them. Then he followed Hardcastle into the den, casting a surreptitious glance at the mantle; no picture of Thomas C. Hardcastle had appeared overnight.

McCormick felt a strange small surge of relief—that much change would have constituted more than he could handle right now. He'd settle for one small step at a time. He smiled to himself and shook his head a little, then reached for the box still next to the tree.

Hardcastle had turned on the TV and was already sitting. He gave the younger man an odd glance as Mark set out the two halves of Sarah's Christmas gift.

"Hey, there's a lot of down time between floats," McCormick smiled. "Best three out of five?" He opened his own board and set to work arranging things. Hardcastle sighed and followed suit, not looking like he was giving a whole lot of thought to the placement of his fleet.

"You first," Mark glanced up when he finished.

Hardcastle flicked the sound up for the UCLA marching band and said, "I-9," absently.

"Hit," Mark frowned. "C-4 . . . I wonder where they get all those flowers," he added, as the cameras tracked onto the next float and the announcers gushed out the specs.

"Miss . . . Probably Mexico. I-8"

"Hit," McCormick's frowned deepened. "_Mexico_?"

"Yeah," the judge nodded, "God gave us Mexico so we'd have roses in December."

Mark looked up sharply, and saw nothing but a bland expression on the judge's face. Feeling a little like he'd missed something besides an aircraft carrier, he asked quietly, "You _are_ okay, aren't you?"

"Yeah. You gonna play or aren't you?"

"Um, E-5."

"Miss." Hardcastle scratched his nose. "C-4."

"Wait a second," Mark protested, "aren't you gonna finish up the one you started?"

"Well," the judge shrugged, "I _know_ where that one is. It's not like it's _going_ anywhere. So, what about C-4?"

"Hit," Mark grumbled, and then, almost under his breath, "How do you _do_ that? It's a game of chance. F-8"

"Miss," Hardcastle announced with apparent satisfaction. "Oh, when I'm winning, it's a game of chance; when _you're_ winning, it's all skill and strategy."

"Damn straight," Mark agreed. "I think we should watch the parade."

"It's not exactly like this takes a lot of concentration. D-4."

"Hit," Mark's eyes narrowed. "How _are_ you doing it?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "We played this last week. You don't use the outer rows much, and you call the squares that you're using for your own ships."

Mark looked down at his already decimated fleet and shook his head, "Okay, I think I'll concede this one."

"Hey, at least you beat me last time." The judge smiled and shrugged again.

"You . . . weren't yourself last time."

"Can't have everything."

This got a smile from the younger man. "Hey, maybe that crap of Henry's really does help with the short term memory. That was a week ago." Then his look got a little more pensive.

"Uh-huh," Hardcastle agreed, "I remember every word."

"Well," pensive turned to calmly resigned, "it's a good thing I wasn't lying."

"Though," the judge said gently, "as confessions go, it had a lot of bet-hedging attached."

"Yeah, but I think that's the best I can do."

"Better than I would have hoped for," the older man cocked a smile.

Mark had sat back, looking at the TV without really seeing it. The parade was winding down. As the credits started to roll, he leaned forward to get to his feet.

"Got some time before the game. I think I'll go hit the showers."

He was up, and halfway to the door when he heard the judge clear his throat.

"Ah . . . what you told Westerfield to tell me, that was true, too?"

There was only the slightest question on the end of that sentence, the smallest element of doubt.

_If that's how it has to be, _Mark thought,_ so be it. _

_I'll change if he can't._

"I said it; I meant it." Mark exhaled. "I wouldn't."

He heard the judge shift in his seat, as if he was turning to say something else. Mark had one foot on the steps leading out; he paused, but didn't turn back.

"Well," Hardcastle said quietly, that one word falling into the silence and hanging there a moment. Then he added, slowly and clearly, "I think I wouldn't, either."

Mark felt his breath catch. He still didn't turn, not really trusting his face.

_Or maybe we'll meet in the middle._


End file.
